Hot Fuss
by Casey V
Summary: It starts with a cliché--in a club, even--becomes a fight on the edge of a cliff--or a canal, if you prefer--then an unlikely and unspoken arrangement with less than savory consequences. Schuldig/Omi, yes, really.
1. Bling

**For those who may have come here due to having me on author alert, please note that this is not a KH fic. Mmk? K.**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Weiss Kreuz. I did, however, buy Kapitel over five years ago at an exorbitant price. Be glad that anime is so cheap these days.

**Pairing:** Schuldig/Omi. Yes, it is consensual. No, it is not crack, nor is it ridiculous and unjustified.

**Casey would like you to note:** This fic was written jointly with an awesome author by the name of **Card** who does not have a ffnet account. This is posted in a few other places but it seemed prudent to put it here since it only does a handful of people any good for it to be up on my LJ these days.

We started writing this fic sometime in 2007, actually, and it started out as just a smut oneshot, but somehow it grew into this massive canon piece. We hope you enjoy it, and you may want to note a few things before you begin:

---The story is set following the death of Takatori Reiji during the period of time while Weiss is disbanded, separated, and lying low. Or at least, it starts out that way, and from there proceeds to give canon the Middle Finger of Doom. And while we're on the subject of canon, we prefer the _An Assassin and White Shaman_ backstory. Where it contradicts with Kapitel, we go with whatever AAWS says.

---This was originally composed as part of the LiveJournal **30_lemons** challenge, though Card and I have long since dropped our pairing claim as the story did not fit so well with the rest of the prompts. Therefore, there is a lot of sex in it. A lot. But there is a story, too. We hope the sex makes up for it.

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**Bling**

Crawford (king of the very stupidest things any grown man could ever say with a toneless sincerity and a great deal of sarcasm) had told him that predators often reuse their hunting grounds until the game is all gone. Pointless observation, really. Crawford had looked at him like it was going to make a great impact on him, seemed to realize that even if he _had_ gotten the secret-code-warning he wasn't going to immediately start sobbing out his thanks, and went back to doing something that would actually produce results.

(Doesn't think much of you, does he--) No, that wasn't the trouble. Crawford knew exactly what he was capable of. He just didn't know how to handle it. (Stroking your own ego, now?) Speaking the truth. (Right.)

Thought about the relevance of this hunting ground wisdom, somewhere about the time he was leaning back against the wall--(one of the only ones with good lighting--and thus one of the only ones without fresh come stains or a grunting mass attached to it)--of the club. Some cheap sounding music making the ground shake, and all the bodies that weren't fucking on the floor, twisting and turning and pulsing right in time with the music. Sweaty and shiny and the smell was something that could make his noise burn if it wasn't so--(inviting?)--pornographic. Thick smell of sweat, but it didn't matter much because only the main floor of the club was lighted and all the dark corners were open and available for a quick anonymous fuck.

Thus, this club's appeal. Lots of cute boys willing to drop their pants with very little encouragement. Thus the club's loss of appeal. Wasn't fun if all it took was his smile and a nod in the direction of the dark place to get witless idiots hot and bothered.

(Wait--you want someone to _not_ want you to fuck them? Doesn't this contradict your very belief structure?) Wanted a challenge-- Wanted someone to play a little, and not just hand over the win with a slutty hair-flip. (...Might have come to the wrong place then.) Someone here had to be something other than a hopeless slut. (No, not a requirement for entry, really.)

Stumbling idiots pulling each other, giggling with their own naughty intentions. Back into the shadows, belts clinking together. Minds sliding as wetly as two tongues--and it was nearly too sickening to describe. (Thankfully they won't be reproducing.) Yes, but it was a small favor in exchange for having to listening to their babbling little brains whimper and moan and question their own whore-like nature. _Why o why do I come to the club to get fucked? Why do I need this? Why--oh, yes, put your hand right there._

Half a step from leaving, waste of time to stand here and wait for something that wasn't likely to-- Stopped, probably looked stupid, stopped in mid-step like that--but-- Felt the grin across his face, felt the useless idiot dancing closest to the edge looking up at him. Uncomfortable, maybe, turned on a little--something, but he didn't like that grin deep down in his gut where his better instincts were. Didn't matter a bit, what that idiot thought.

Because there, in the part of the crowd, working his way to the edge, moving with the beat of the music--glitter in his hair--mind sliding along with (want? desire? horniness?) reluctance. Contradiction, wanted it and wanted it soon, but couldn't let it happen because--(because he was a good boy, right? Good boy that killed people.)

Tsukiyono. Omi. Leader-boy of Weiss.

(Isn't this about the time that Crawford would be reminding you about bees?) Left Crawford at home, and that line about the bees wasn't even slightly in reference to this. (Naturally not.)

Watched Omi move through the crowd, zipper of his shirt catching the light--that glitter in his hair-- (Think you can talk him into fucking after you've just killed his cousin?) That was weeks ago--a month? Two? (He still remembers it quite vividly.) Didn't matter, he wasn't here to remember his dead cousin; he was here to rub against the pretty flesh and get laid. (Your flesh would only be pretty to him if filled with holes and bleeding profusely.)

Schuldig smirked; Omi was working his way to the edge of the crowd (_Could just go over there, wander in--someone would notice, might take an interest, might be easier if you can't see...,_) farther from the lighting (_Not like you couldn't get out if things went bad_,) closer to the dark.

(_Not like you couldn't get out if things went bad, and in the dark there, if someone ended up with a shuriken to the groin it's not like they'd know who put it there._) Leaning into and away from the hands and legs and hips brushing against his. All the will to let it go, and all the stubborn refusal to give in. (_Could just wander over, wander in, see what happened? Wouldn't be so bad..._)

See what happened? (By all means, go help him.)

Turned, caught the edge of that idiot still staring at him, wondering about that smile on his face and the length of his hair. Pondering his own dirty thoughts and that sick-twist of bile-flavored fear in his throat. Schuldig half turned his head back, cracked a snide sneering grin at him, swiped his tongue across his lips and then turned back and walked away. Kept to the edge of the crowd, less people there to grab at his clothes, or rub against his leg like whimpering dogs. Slipped into the darkness--could almost hear the moaning here, smelled the sweat, sex and come in the air. Too much cologne in spots, almost made him sneeze--left a bitter taste to the air.

Stood there, watched Omi hesitate, turn back, look at the crowd. Fighting, fighting with himself. Some last sense of morality in his head, some restraint based on perfect ideals. (Good boys don't give it away for free.) Never been a good boy then.

Schuldig moved, slipping just out of his line of sight, hand down in his own pants pocket, pulling his hair up into a ponytail, (because he'd notice it, right, even if he couldn't see it?) moving silently, around behind him. Omi felt him, half turned his head, eyebrows pulling down--suspicion in his mind already. (Assassin training dies hard--) Schuldig put his hands on Omi's shoulders, wrists almost touching on the back of his neck, firm press but nothing like danger--no intent to hurt. Touch. Slid them forward, felt the shirt drag against his palm, fabric damp--his fingers curling around the slope of shoulder.

Flinch there, (_this is what you wanted, isn't it?_), bit of curiosity as Schuldig's hands kept dragging, down his arms now, moving a bit closer. Loosened the grip, hands coming back up Omi's arms, just his open palm, pulling the sleeves of his shirt up. Watched him turn his head, head tipping back, trying to see him, but the lighting was bad. Couldn't see much other than the silhouette. Taller than him.

(Really think this will work?)

Palms around his shoulders, fingers pressing just above his collarbone, something almost _reverent_ in the touch. Flexed the grip and then moved it again, dragging down, heavier this time, slipping down, down his arms, almost to his hands, slightest bit of grip there, fingertips against his pulse, thumbs on the soft flesh of the insides of his wrist. Lower, sliding down onto his palm, and then back up--slipped just a bit closer, the air between them warm and close.

(Yes, this will work.)

Tightened the grip on his wrist--not so much to alarm, just enough to guide, up, felt the uncertainty there, but Omi moved with him. Enough curiosity there to see where it was going to lead, (to hell, of course.) Arms up, over his shoulders, pressed them back so his hands were up against Schuldig's shoulders, could go around his neck if he wanted--wasn't picky about what they did. Slipped his hands down Omi's arms sliding along the line of paler flesh, down to his elbows, over his sleeves, and to his chest, fingers pressing against his collarbone for a moment, then his thumbs, fingers dipping lower. Thin shirt, could feel the heat of his skin through it, damp from the dance floor--

Dipped his head down, breath just at the edge of Omi's ear, hands going lower, palms pressing closer to the line of his ribs, felt the muscles flexing. One hand going lower, just at the edge of his belly, the other back up, sliding across his chest, slipping up his neck, arm across his collarbone, and tipped his head back.

(Kissing the enemy--think he's going to like it when he finds out who you are?)

Hesitation almost. Soft at first, mouth barely open--breath against his lips. Pressed harder, hand flattening against his belly, pulling him back just a little, still space between them, but the heat was stronger this way. Kiss deepening, his thumb stroking Omi's jaw.

(You'll get killed for this.) No. (Yes.) No; the boy would blame himself.

Tongue against his--tastes like mint. Brushed his teeth like a good boy, freshened up his breath. (Something more people should do, really. Two-hour-old teriyaki just isn't appealing.) Slow kiss. (Almost too slow.) Slower than he was usually forced to make it; but in some cases a little patience paid off. (Cases involving you fucking your enemy, of course.) Felt the fingers go around his neck, brushing against the hair falling out of the ponytail at the nape of his neck. Curling around those fingers and pulling a little--shoulders tipping back against his, and Omi's mouth opening a little wider--didn't match the beat of his thoughts though. Couldn't quite let it happen, wanted a bit more, then was going to let go. Should let go. Not nice to lead him on like this-- Felt nice, but no thanks.

Schuldig curled his fingers in, pulling the shirt under his hand up, over belly flesh, held it up with his thumb--let his fingers press against the skin. Lingering there for a minute, and then working down, low enough he could feel the edge of Omi's belt, and the slight dip where his waist started to trail down into his hips. Broke the kiss though, too many crowding little doubts in his head. Flicked his tongue against that earring in his ear-- Then down, panting wet breath against Omi's neck--hand moving back across his chest, and up on his arm, fingers curling loosely around his elbow.

Licked his lips and tipped his head in, (ah, yes, lets nibble on his neck, and he'll return the favor by slitting yours.) Glitter on his skin, gritty against his tongue--skin blushing warm under his mouth though. Reached that hand off Omi's belly, up to his neck, tugged on the zipper, felt it resist, the clingy fabric stretching against the pull. (Another reason not to like the club--ridiculous wardrobe decisions.) Dropped his other hand down to press against the collar, and held it still, felt the zipper sliding, and followed its descent with his free hand, shiver in the body under his, bit off gasp, sweat-sticky skin, getting slicker with new sweat now. Down, down over his belly, Omi's indrawn breath and all the way down. Fingertips against his belt again, pushing against his pants. Moved his mouth back up, caught Omi's again--felt his mind, something like give right there, but the other thing was rising up; time to stop, maybe. (Not hardly. Boy must not be attracting the right sort of people if he thinks he can just _stop_ now.) Schuldig's hands up, back up to his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest, elbows against Omi's ribs, the open flaps of his shirt bunching up around his forearms, and there--his chest to Omi's back.

(He's not gonna like that--) Predictable, that good boy voice in Omi's head got too loud--didn't like the closeness and the intent. (_Can't do this._) Didn't matter that it felt good, didn't matter that Omi wanted the feeling, liked the feel of it--still did with his hands rubbing against his skin and his body against his, hips dipping lower, evening the press of their bodies. (_--felt_ good.)

Omi's mouth pulling away, head pressing back against Schuldig's shoulders, his arms falling back down. "W...wait--" (_but this can't be right and there must be a better way than in the dark with some stranger you can't see who isn't even _talking _and it isn't _safe_ here_.)

Squirming now, half-assed attempt, separating their bodies again, hands around Schuldig's wrists, pulling at them a bit. Wanted his freedom, thought, somewhere in his mind, that this was all it would take.

(Maybe it is all it takes--) No. Not likely.

Followed him forward, no threat, insistent, mouth against his jaw, his neck. His tongue on Omi's skin, hands slipping a little under the pull of those wrists, not much, lower now, back to his chest, one hand over his heart--felt the beat of it. Speeding up--his mind giving into it again, just a little. Back arching into the touch again, breath heavy--floating on the feeling of the touch. Eyes closed, mouth open. (Should tell Crawford--all it takes is a little nibble and they're putty. Just to see what look he makes.)

But no. Good boys don't give it away for free in dark corners to men that aren't even talking to them.

"Wait--" Would have meant more if it weren't exhaled over his teeth--if he had stopped wanting the touch or if his head had tipped forward or his hands had really pushed him away. Would have meant more if there had been any real effort behind it--instead of the want in his mind, that shivered down into his shoulders and the slight arch of his back. Neck still bared--

(Should give it to him, if he wants it.)

Indeed. Kissed him again, more intent to it. No force (lets not provoke the use of the shuriken in his pocket, hm.) Put his want into it. (I want you, feels good doesn't it? Someone touching you like this, and kissing you like this, pressing against you like this-- Wanting _you._ So shut up and like it.)

Dragged his hands down Omi's bare skin again, those fingers still loose on his wrist. Pressed a palm against his belly and pulled him back again, their hips brushing now, and the other hand turning, fingers down now, slipping under the line of that belt. Not so deep, just a little naughty--making the intent clear. Brushing against the line of his hip. Sighed a breath into the kiss, something almost needy in the near moan.

(I want you. Feel it.) Just don't ask why. (Ah, evil's in the motivation, right?)

Stutter of breath there, mouth open under his, something like a whimper in Omi's throat. (Finally.) Giving in, there, letting it go and moving with it. Hand over top his, not restraining it, giving a little push of encouragement maybe, the other hand back up, slipping into his hair.

(Too far away from the wall to fuck him, you know. Lets move forward.) Gave a bit of push, leaning forward, (move now.)

Omi moved, feet first, almost tripped, mind not really giving a thought to the why until they were six steps closer to that wall and the smell of sex was thick in the air. (Quick fuck, right here. Time for the conscience to object.) No, lets not. Schuldig dropped his mouth again, away from the kiss, to his neck--mouthed the skin, his tongue trailing across it just barely, almost ticklish. Omi's mind waking up its objections again--all about nice boys and their prudish behavior. Pressed his hand further down, belt tight across the back of his hand, on his wrist--tightening around Omi's waist too--fingers against him, slight rub through the thin fabric of his boxers. Hips against his, rubbing a bit now--(Look at what I can give you.) Felt the shiver there, in his mind--still not quite convinced, still maybe--ought to stop.

(No, lets not.)

Pressed his hand in deeper, pulling the belt tighter against his forearm, tighter around Omi's waist. Had to hurt, or would soon. Pressed his palm against him heavier, rubbing slightly--not much, not enough space. Turned his head, mouth against Omi's hair, breath across his ear, something like a moan in there somewhere. Gasped out in his breath.

Omi's whine, mind with some objection still, but that belt around his waist hurt now and that hand--didn't hurt at all. Liked it, the feel of it, not quite like he wanted it to feel, and the body behind him, hand against his belly, fingers on his ribs--holding him there. Could do it. Still could get away if he changed his mind. (Hold onto that security, like a baby's precious blanket.) But his hands were down, tugging on his own belt, hard slide, with the extra stretch. Yanked it--dug into Schuldig's arm--and then it came open, loosened.

(Note how he didn't unbutton his pants; how lazy is this boy, exactly?)

Omi's hand tracing back up Schuldig's arm, to his shoulder, and then up, fingers around his neck, into his hair, curling there--pulled it loose from the hairtie and leaned his head back.

(Apparently this means you have permission.)

Indeed. Hand on Omi's face again, turning it toward him, kissed him. Urgent messy kiss, more force now, more want-- Calculated bit of need. Press of Schuldig's hips against him, slow grind, and his hand moving against Omi now.

Shiver. Moan into his mouth like the taste of mint on Omi's tongue. And his mind (still uttering objections, a little, not a lot--not loudly--shut up please.)

(How are you going to do this, exactly?) The same way he fucked most boys, probably. (He's short.) There was that, he'd noticed, what with the pain forming in his neck, but the benefit of kissing him had thus far outweighed it--eager little thing. Wondered what he was going to think when he found out who's tongue he was rubbing against. (Nothing good, but the more immediate concern--boy needs to gain a few inches in height.)

Broke the kiss, looked around the dimness of the corner, eyes squinting--should know this place by now, as many boys as he had fucked here. (All of them giving it up much faster, if you'll remember--and most of them just a bit taller.) A bench. Disgusting, really. Had yet to sit on it--did not like the idea of starting today. (Put Omi on it then--it's taller than his knees, if only by a little.) That would work.

Listened to the bitten-back little noises Omi was making, his body quivering a bit, hips pushing forward into the press of his palm. Hand curling up in a fist against Schuldig's neck--

(Yes, time for the bench.) Bumped against him, deliberate, slowed the rub of his hand, felt Omi's objection in his head, whine through the clench of his teeth around his lip, those wide eyes sliding open enough to look--trying to figure out why he was being nudged. Blinked against the darkness, and saw the bench. Schuldig pushed him again, dragging his hand up, out of the pants--onto his belly, leg moving, pushing Omi's and--there. Finally, forward movement. Two steps and Omi raising his knee, pulling himself up, one arm against the wall to steady himself, half turning to look back at him again--(self conscious now, is he? No objection, but doesn't it feel a bit strange to be so obliging?) Schuldig moving behind him again, height difference a bit better, kissing Omi again. Hands on his belly, flattening his palms against that skin--flexing now--and rubbed his hips against Omi's, groaned into the kiss, low and needy.

(Want more now, be a good boy and help out.) Plucked at the waist band to Omi's pants--felt his mind acknowledge the request, maybe ignore it a bit; his hips pressing forward though, wanting more of that touch and rub. (Want it--prove it.) Schuldig's hands around his sides, dragging, and then falling away from Omi's skin. Pulling at his own pants, no belt--Omi couldn't have heard the sound anyway, not as loud as the music was. Throbbing now, and the sound of all those bodies rubbing together, jumping and dancing.

Omi's short and sharp moment of complete-- Disbelief that he was really tugging his pants open, really going to do it, pushing them down--right here--in public--getting himself all ready, available--couldn't believe it really. (Or maybe he can.)

Schuldig sighing out a pant, wanted to be touching skin again, dug the lube out of his pocket, the condom--leaned forward to press his forehead against Omi's shoulder, panting against the loosened collar of his shirt, felt the shiver there. All but heard the drag of Omi's tongue across his lips--waiting for him, hands right there on his own waist band but he wasn't about to push it down--not yet--not until it was necessary.

Schuldig's hand slipping back around his waist--necessities attended too--(as much as they can be with those pants in the way) licked a line of sweat off Omi's neck, back up, felt his head tip again, little gasp at the hand going around his waist and back down, nudging at his open pants, digging under the waist band of the boxers and-- Heavy breath, pant, gasp--beautiful sound.

(Now get your pants out of my fucking way.)

Good boy, sliding his pants down, drag of breath at it, into the kiss, had to lean back against him, almost unsteady on his knees--bench was narrow or it was just strange. Pushing his pants down, to his thighs, a little lower--breaking the kiss to pant, eyes closed still. (Enjoying this too much, are we?)

Panting enemy rubbing back against his hand, shivering with want and utterly clueless as to who he was about to let fuck him--yeah. Enjoyed it a bit; especially those noises. Dropped his hand down to Omi's thigh, fingers against the inside of it, tugging it open a bit wider--Omi leaning forward against the wall now, head down, elbows braced. (Still couldn't quite believe he was--) Exhale of breath, hard, helpless, quivering muscle--Schuldig's fingers sinking inside of him. Slipping deeper--finding the angle. Omi's fist against the wall when he found it, pressing back of those hips and an urgent whimper held back and strangled in his chest.

(Fuck him now.)

No, pressed a bit more, rubbing inside of him, hand petting his thigh, holding it open and his body pressed against Omi's back, his breath against his ear, his cheek, hair falling down out of its holder, brushing against Omi's shoulders. Fingers moving, shallow and slow. Teasing him with it, wringing those noises out of him--out of his mouth, head tipping, hips rolling back, shameless in the want and suddenly Omi didn't seem to mind they were in public. (More of that now.) Mouth against his neck again, sucking on it, feeling the vibration of the moan as it caught there in Omi's throat.

Fingers slipping out, shift his hips, had to dip a little lower--sweet anticipation in Omi's mind--flexing, pressing in. In. Eyes sliding shut.

In.

Omi fingernails against the wall, scratching for something to hold onto, his shoulders forward but his head rolling back. Schuldig pressed his teeth against Omi's neck, not hard, just enough, breath heavy. Pressed his hand against the wall, elbow bent, needed something to steady himself.

Shivering, yes, moaning, yes, whimpering, yes, and rubbing back against him--yes. Taste of Omi's skin in his mouth, should have been normal, just sweat--glitter, bit of soap. It shouldn't have mattered--but his mind--his fucking _mind._ Likes to be touched, hard to find that, to _really_ find it.

Grit his teeth together, rocked his hips forward, urgent whimper echoing in his ear. Again--another noise, another twist of that mind, pressing back against him, knees shifting. Schuldig dragged his fingertips up Omi's skin, off his thigh, up his hip, to his belly again, palm against that, pulling him back. Tipped his head, cheek against Omi's shoulder, opened his eyes just enough, saw the black shirt pulling down, sleeve half down that arm--scar there.

(From where you shot him.)

Grin across his face in time with the rock of his hips. More urgent now, flexing, rubbing harder, hand pulling that body back against his-- Licked his lips--and ran his tongue across that scar. Smooth skin, raised a bit.

(Bad boy.)

Needed more now, straightened back up, felt his palm slipping on the wall--sweaty--and pressed harder, leaned against Omi, pressed to his back, hips rocking into his, short and shallow movements, like grinding against him--felt the shivers, the moan in his chest. Pressed his face against Omi's hair again. Hand sliding up from his belly--feeling the shiver of muscle the whole way, and curled his fingers around Omi's throat, on his shoulder with his thumb pressed there, feeling the panting whine.

(Fuck him.)

Yes, more, mouth against his neck now, sucking on it--hips jerking, in and in and in--friction and heat and his _mind_.

"Fuck," he breathed, face pressed against Omi again, mouth just at his ear--had to have heard it--but it didn't matter. They were both moving with it, rocking, hands slipping on the wall, arms touching and hips pushing to meet each other. Breath almost in sync, Omi crying out now, and head heavy against Schuldig's shoulder, mouth open--

(Oh fuck.)

Mind everywhere, all at once, and _feeling_ it. Drowning in it, but it was alright, with the heat of the body around him, damp weight against his chest and the throbbing need in his hips, his belly--right there in his jaws. Teeth around the earring in Omi's ear, tugging on it a little--pressing in more and more--

Eyes closed and an echo of that curse mangled in his throat--"Fuck"--or something like it. Pressed in tight and shivering, Omi coming down off the high first--still breathing uneven, not quite ready to deal with the reality of it.

Schuldig let go of the earring, stayed there tight against him. Breathing through the moment--catching his breath and riding the quieting of Omi's mind until the aftershocks were gone.

Time for reality again--loosened his grip then, pulling back. Tossing the condom wherever it landed--no real concern for it. Looked at Omi--watched him shifting, moving himself so he wasn't on the bench, pulling his own pants up, and resolving something in his own mind--his justification for this. Some suspicion in his mind, (_(isn't quite right, that voice) And that wasn't so bad, really good, actually, and he was skilled and considerate and (he licked at that scar, that was odd)_) or something else. (_Tired now, but it'd be nice to at least get a look at him (this isn't--)_) Turned around—(_NO_.) Knew who it was with a spike of certainty right through his belly—knew it by the fall of his hair even before he saw his eyes. His face. Omi's eyes going wide, hand over his mouth—bit too pale now.

(_Oh _God_ what have I done?_)

Omi sank down, onto the bench, button to his pants still undone and open, belt hanging loosely—

Schuldig pulled the hair tie out, shook his head to let it fall back around his face. Still warm and floating a bit. Broke away from Omi's mind and the endless spool of it. Shame his damn conscience had to get in the way and twist his brain all up around this. (That happens to good boys.)

"It's my day off," he said. Within arms reach of the boy—unarmed even, and wouldn't now be the perfect time to hurt him or kill him. Dark here and nobody was liable to notice. Figured Omi could do it without getting blood on him.

Too much time, Omi blinking, mind working its way around that spool of thought (what have I done) and past the still fading burn of the orgasm. Figured it out, finally and (_then…why?_) If he wasn't doing it to hurt, to torment him—then why do it at all?

Schuldig bent down, two fingers under Omi's chin, lifting his face and kissed him. Short—didn't push his luck, or wait for Omi to break out of this downward spiral and pull out the pointy things—and then pulled back, still close, his hair falling into his face now, bangs against Omi's. "You're a smart boy," looked at him, his eyes, and the glitter still clinging to his hair. "You'll figure it out."

(Time to go.) Yes. (Want another go?) Yes. (Think it's going to happen?) Maybe.


	2. This River is Wild

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Weiss Kreuz. I also don't own a swanky red sports car like Schuldig has, probably because I'm not a narcissistic German telepath and therefore not special enough to own a swanky red sports car. xD

**Pairing:** Schuldig/Omi. Yes, it is consensual. No, it is not crack, nor is it ridiculous and unjustified.

**Casey would like you to note:** This fic was written jointly with an awesome author by the name of **Card** who does not have a ffnet account. This is posted in a few other places but it seemed prudent to put it here since it only does a handful of people any good for it to be up on my LJ these days.

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**This River is Wild**

The rain started about fifteen minutes into the jog, without preamble or bothering to warn unprepared runners with so much as an apologetic spattering of drops. The sky simply opened like a faucet and poured.

Omi was drenched within seconds; decided to stop running seconds after that and pulled his jacket over his head--the jacket he'd only taken off and tied to his waist minutes ago when the world was still _dry_. And yes it was cold and it was February and he ought to have left it on, to begin with, but sweat cooled faster in the free air. Running wasn't exactly a temperate exercise.

He paused under a tree, which at least minimized the effect of a sudden torrential downpour, estimating how far he'd run from the apartment. Watched an unfortunate courier backed completely against a wall, bike squeezed against his legs, hiding under a minuscule overhang to avoid the worst of it; looked like he was having a bad day. Watched the few other people out and about this early in the morning scurry off under newspapers and briefcases and jackets to the nearest available shelter. Watched the water create little rivers from the sidewalk, pouring down the grassy embankment into the cement ditch below him. Watched a foreigner glaring at the door of a red sports car--

Wait.

He squinted, sheets of rain blurring the half-dozen meters or so of space between himself and the car parked on the curb, but--pretty sure that was Schuldig yanking on the door handle. Sunglasses and headband in one hand, completely soaked and spitting a stream of--something totally incomprehensible.

Schuldig--it _had_ to be him, not like there were all that many redheaded foreigners wandering around Tokyo--pulled back from the car and viciously kicked the tire, shouting something. German, maybe? Sounded like it might be German.

Omi blinked a few times; normally, in this situation, in order to esteem himself with whomever he happened upon on any given day, he would have cheerfully offered this person his assistance. _Pardon me, sir, did you lock your keys in your car? Here, let me help--how did I learn to do this? Oh, I regularly break into things and places in my line of work--or rather, I have this friend who is forever locking his keys in. Aren't I a nice, helpful boy?_

That, after all, even in stranger parts of town among people he'd never met and would probably never see again, was called building a reputation. The more people in general were absolutely positive that Tsukiyono Omi was a fine, upstanding young man, the more people would never believe that the reality was, in fact, the reality.

Schuldig, now, that was a different matter. It would have been a different matter had any of Schwarz been standing on that particular curb, kicking and cussing at their defenseless car in foreign languages, but this... no, this was a little more specific.

If you know what's good for you, Tsukiyono, he told himself--and Schuldig was leaning up, pushing his hair back and pausing like maybe he'd heard--you'll turn around and go home. Right now.

Schuldig turned abruptly, like Omi had all but shouted in his ear. The most perfect expression of exasperation at the tail end of its limit, so clear and concise it could practically be heard.

_Well, aren't you just the cherry on top._

"I know you're there." Voice like a purr, something dangerous around the edges. Schuldig projecting his bad mood in waves.

Omi tugged the jacket a little lower on his forehead. Should've run. He probably still could, but... there was something to this, some kind of cosmic justice to the fact that Schuldig--telepath, professional, and otherwise manipulative bastard, smug sense of superiority tacked to his forehead in neon lights--was locked out of his car. Tugged down to the level of the plebeians surrounding him in a moment of inattentiveness.

He laughed a little, just a short chuckle to humor his amusement, wry look at Schuldig from under his jacket. "So, what's this? Are you human, too, after all?"

Schuldig paused--right there with his hand still in his hair and that look melted from exasperation into something less nice. More calculating, maybe, tugging the hand out of his hair and hissing, shaking the damp strands off his fingers. A few steps closer, moving slowly, a minor bit of smile growing across his face along the way. "Now, would that make you feel better--or worse?" The obvious suggestion right there, in Schuldig's voice. Hands and mouth in the dark and-- "If I were _just_ a human after all?"

Should've run. Omi shifted to the side, weight on the balls of his feet--instinctive reaction, he was getting too close and escape was preferable to an altercation in daylight (as much as there was with the rain pouring down, anyway) on the street. Better to be thought a coward than be uncovered, ultimately. But that _look_--

(Hands on his skin and mouth on his neck, arms pressed against a cold wall perspiring from too many people in the building and hot and _hot_ and ohhh, yes--)

Stop that. Right now.

"It doesn't matter what I think." Tried not to sound defensive--really tried, because the last thing he wanted was to give Schuldig some kind of opening to find a weakness, rip it out and wave it in front of him like a captured prize. Like before, like--(let's not go there). Omi wasn't going to play that game again. "You're the one who took advantage of the situation. I'm sure you're pleased with yourself."

Schuldig was moving closer again, within arm's reach now, close enough Omi had to tilt his head back to see his face, water dripping off the collar of his jacket and onto his nose. Schuldig squinting through the rain soaking him and pushing his hair back, casual, instinctive gesture. Same little smile there, same look and suggestion and that hint of animosity in his eyes. "I took advantage of a situation you created. You wanted to get fucked--I wanted to fuck you." Cold reality to those words; Schuldig licked his lips a bit, a kind of subtle reminder. _I know what you feel like naked, how you taste, the sounds you make. And you can't take it back, so there._ "And you didn't answer my question--If I'm just a little human, do you feel better or worse?"

(Don't answer that.)

Omi turned his head, maybe a little scoff there, let go of his jacket to leave it hanging awkwardly on his head, but he wanted both hands free. Shifted backwards just slightly--needed more room to move. "How is that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn't change anything." You still killed her (told you not to go there). You didn't pull the trigger but you created the situation. One moment of normalcy doesn't trump a lifetime of depravity.

That probably went for both of them.

"Fine." Omi grit his teeth and spat the rain away from his mouth; the jacket wasn't covering his face so well anymore. "FINE. Yes, it makes me feel better that you can do something as normal and stupid as locking your keys in the car. Yes, it makes me feel better to have proof that you're not really as powerful and in control as you like to think you are, and yes it makes me feel better to know that if you can make one mistake, you could make another, and goddamnit if you hadn't I'd be in my own grave right now instead of her." Deep breath, some kind of shake to his shoulders now; it was getting too cold. "And yes, it makes me feel better that, being human, you must really be shallow and horny enough to randomly decide to fuck someone you'd tried to kill a few months before in the corner of a techno club. Yes, dammit, it makes me feel better."

(Told you not to answer that.)

No smirk anymore. Schuldig looked more like someone had shoved a lemon in his mouth; something tight to the line of his jaw. "Shallow and horny, huh?" And the words sounded just as petty and spiteful as they were probably meant to. Another step towards Omi, viciously shoving his hair back again despite the weight of the water throwing it right back into his face. "At least I knew who I was fucking."

_Slut_. Never said but oh so very implied.

At some point the jacket had fallen off Omi's head, bare to the elements now, water streaming into his eyes and down the back of his shirt--tried to back up again (he's too damn close) the sopping pile of fabric tripping him up, shifted to the side instead.

A kind of eerie light to Schuldig's eyes. A _don't fuck with me_ sort of aura.

"I didn't decide to kill you--my employer did. It's called a job and you should recognize the requirements." Schuldig spat rain away from his mouth again, voice dropping to a hiss.

A job.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds familiar. (But what the hell are you trying to prove?) Two months since Weiss was dissolved. Over sixty days and every one of them he couldn't let it go. Couldn't cut himself loose, drop the pain and the animosity and the daily grind of fight, run, die; and here he was, fighting with an enemy who wasn't even his enemy anymore like he still had a right and an obligation to keep fighting.

There was some kind of divine irony to all this.

Omi opened his mouth, some retort or other on his tongue, something scathing and bitter and not entirely true, one foot moving backwards in preparation to dodge or run or whatever from however Schuldig reacted. One foot back and--

Nothing. Oh, shit.

He felt himself tilting, overbalanced and nothing solid under his foot--grass, mud, way too damn much rainwater--instinctively reached out and grabbed a fistful of Schuldig's shirt but--

This was not going to end well.

There was an instant that almost froze, both of them hanging in midair at odd angles, no longer solidly perpendicular to the sidewalk, floating through middle-space out over the steep expanse of grass that spilled down into the canal. Shallow this time of year but rushing with runoff. Froze and held for seconds, maybe.

And immediately followed by the cold, air-jerking impact with the ground. Half sliding, half rolling, vision alternating gray, green, gray, green, flash of red and--

SPLASH.

It took a moment--just a bare second, really, to process all this. Ache in his shoulder where it hit concrete, another in his side where somewhere during all that it had run into Schuldig's elbow. Lack of air in his lungs from the collision and--_freezing fucking cold_. Water. Can't breathe. Shit--

Omi pushed up, or where he assumed was up, his body seeming to want to float that way, flailed and spluttered ungracefully at the surface and stumbled, the canal only waist-deep but moving fast. Coughed and caught hold of the concrete ledge, leaning against it and waiting for his breath to catch up with the rest of him.

_Cold._

"Scheisse! Blodsinninger Scheisskerl! Arschloch!"

Schuldig was crossing the canal, leaning forward to walk against the current and spitting water and what were probably German curses at the general space in front of him. "My fucking sunglasses!" Bared his teeth at the grassy, muddy slope and continued hissing profanity through his teeth, hoisting himself onto the concrete ledge and climbing out.

_Cold._ Omi's teeth were chattering, all his higher instincts screaming at him to move, now. He drew in a breath, finally without coughing or gasping, drug himself out of the freezing water and--well, the rain wasn't much better, was it? (Move.) Bit back the shivers in his muscles and stared up hopelessly at the wall of grass and mud in front of him.

(Better start climbing.) Slippery mud; Omi had to dig his fingers in and kick footholds into the clumps of grass. He distantly remembered having an easier time scaling the side of a building with a tether, Ken on the ground with a stage-whisper hiss trying to tell him he was too far right, slow down, wait I think someone's coming, no never mind--all wrapped up in his worry and trying not to blow their cover at the same time.

He wondered where Ken was, what he was doing. Forgot to wonder when he slipped and got a faceful of mud.

Schuldig was nearly to the top already, still cussing with the same persistence as the rain. Muttering at first and then shouting a few choice words, all his movements vicious like he could somehow wound this bit of ground that had offended him. A string of phrases somewhere in the middle intermingled with Japanese, something having to do with 'mud' and 'hair'. There was something--strangely funny about all that. Not with the thought of 'well, it serves him right' that should have been there, in the back of Omi's mind, but it wasn't.

Something else, more complicated. Something...

But this guy--this telepath, this foreigner, he was a pain in the ass. He was vain. Arrogant. Manipulative. Liked to throw his superiority around and seriously could give a fuck about--_anything_. And he (don't go there, just let it go).

I hate him, Omi told himself. (So why are you staring at him?)

He felt wet pavement under his hand, the next reach up for a handhold. Almost there, still cold (really fucking cold) but there had to be somewhere nearby--Schuldig was already out of sight, probably stomped off still cursing and wrapped in his bad day like a fog, to... wherever it was he'd come from to begin with. To find a locksmith for his car. Whatever Schuldig did when he was pissed off.

Figured.

"Hey."

Omi pulled himself a little further up and saw the shoes on the sidewalk, followed them up, all the way to the eyes squinting down at him, Schuldig's face smudged with mud and dripping rainwater. He made a motion, hand pointing vaguely across the street. "I live over there."

And that was it. Turned his back and walked away.

"You've got to be kidding me," Omi muttered entirely to himself, spitting out the taste of canal water and climbing onto the sidewalk, grabbing his soggy jacket off the ground. Mud, everywhere--knees of his track pants, front of his shirt, forearms, face, under his fingernails. No way in hell any of the businesses around here were going to let him in to dry off and warm up.

He stood for a moment, shivering and chattering and utterly failing to pull his jacket around him in some matter that might provide a sliver of warmth. Waited until Schuldig was nearly out of sight before running across the street after him.

* * *

Shivering. Perfect fucking day, really--perfect end to a perfect day (little cold there?) Cold happened about five minutes ago just about the time Omi had been contemplating running away. Cold was a pleasant warm place in comparison--and FUCK. Lost his sunglasses, lost his keys, looked like a fucking moron--and this fucking mud in his fucking hair.

(And that fucking little boy, following you--)

Yeah, well that. That might be useful. (Heating pad with a pulse?) Everyone who had ever seen TV knew that the best way to warm up was body heat. (Except that he hasn't got any--body heat.) Fuck the details. He was tired, he was cold and he was-- (Feeling sorry for yourself? How quaint.)

No, not that. Fumbled with the damn door, got it open, shoving it in hard enough that it cracked against the doorstop with an echo. Make the neighbors bitch, maybe--not that it mattered. Stood in the doorway too long, giving Omi time to catch up (aren't you a nice boy?) And then went for the stairs. Not the elevator, it took too long and it was always drafty. Stairs--too cold, it was taking too long to get up them, and there was fucking mud dripping out of his hair, down his face. Could taste it at the corner of his mouth and raised his hand to wipe it off-- Mud on his fingertips, pure black grit under his fingernails. Just fucking perfect really.

Got to his floor--3--and down the hall, shoes squishing, leaving wet stains and puddles and-- Opened the door--didn't lock it, never locked it. Nothing inside worth locking the door for. Except his clothes--

Stopped at the door, fingers tugging at the fucking buttons on his coat--stiff and thick with cold, too hard to get apart. Yanked at them until they gave; the top three. Then reached over his shoulders and fisted the back of the soaking jacket, yanked it up, felt it drag--heavy, muddy--pulling at his shirt too. Got stuck on his elbows, face inside the damn thing. (Oh, this is perfect, really.) Leaned forward on some kind of instinct, yanked at it harder and felt it give, off his shoulders, over his head, straightened up and shook his head to get his hair over his shoulders. Looked over at Omi, still standing in the door way.

"If you're coming in--lose the clothes here. And shut the door."

(_You want me to--what?_) Blurry thoughts, they were all blurry. Too tired to focus on it. Voices still there, free floating in an endless crowd-- Nothing coming through stronger than a weak murmur--but Omi stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. The flavor of 'what the fuck' in his mind. Shivering, already dropped the jacket on the floor. "You want me to strip?"

Seemed repetitive, really. Repeating the same shit that he'd already said. Popped the buttons on his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders and tossed it into the bucket next to the door. And his jacket. Was toeing his shoes off when he looked over at Omi. "Yes."

Indignation? Anger? Something--felt the edge of it in Omi's mind. (Something about you can just go--) Or something else. Felt Omi's eyes on his skin, chest, belly, shoulders, watching him as he dropped his hands down to his pants now. Just them and the fucking sopping wet socks now. (Good boys don't stare, you know.) Yeah, whatever.

Whatever kind of anger Omi was trying to build, lost under the shivering weight of his own clothes, and the chill of Schuldig's room. (What was it Nagi said that one time--'Don't you believe in heat?' No, not really.) "Can I at least get a towel or something?"

The pants stuck to Schuldig's thighs, wet material clinging tightly, had to bend over to dig his fingers under and shove the legs down a little at a time, pulled one leg free and then the other. Just socks now, looked up at Omi, still bent over, hair hanging in his eyes, felt the mud on his face and he must look like some kind of fucking ridiculous. (He doesn't look much better--Except for that wet white top--liked that.) Dropped his eyes back down, pulling his socks off with his cold-stiff fingers and then tossing them and the pants into the same bucket. Hit the bottom with a wet flop. "Yeah--whatever," he said. Left Omi standing there, across the front room to the hallway, bathroom--grabbed a towel off the rack. Back across the floor--fucking cold in here. (Your fault, should turn the heat on sometimes.) "It's the only towel you're getting," Schuldig said. Stood there holding it out for Omi to grab if he wanted. "The other one's for me."

(Yeah, sure, he looks like he's buying that.) Took the towel though, eyes focusing on Schuldig, roaming a bit over his body, chest—belly—lower-- Heard the mental shriek to stop that and stop it now through the murmuring din of voices. An almost shake to Omi's head and he toed his shoes off. Towel awkwardly over his arm, dragging on the ground, while he tugged at his socks. Strange balance to his shivering body as he lifted one foot and then the other, straightened back up to tug at his pants, the waist band stretching easily—

Looked up briefly, those blue eyes, looking right at him, caught him looking and his mind gave a little flinch. Wanted to know why he was just standing there, why he was looking—

Pushed his pants down and stepped out of them, still trying to figure out this staring thing. (Oh, but he knew why he was looking, or thought he did.) Cold was winning out; too fucking cold and the clothes were wet and sticking. White tank top tight to the lines of his body and the boxers sticking to his thighs. Stood there and shivered, watching Schuldig. Didn't want to take the clothes off, but wanted them off—but—

"What? Stop looking at me!"

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow at that. Ran his hand through his hair, dragging it back away from his face—mud, felt the mud against his fingers. Would have smirked but it was fucking cold, and he had no clothes on. Water still dripping down his back and his face from his hair. Gooseflesh everywhere that wasn't still shivering a bit. "Consider it a compliment," Schuldig said offhand. Sounded soft and stupid to his own ears—wondered what little Omi would think of it, but didn't really care enough to stay and find out. "The shower is in there." Point down the hall, turning and walking toward it. To his room. Passed the open door of the bathroom. "Right there." And continued on, turning and into his room.

(What is this you are doing exactly? Inviting him in, giving him your shower--) It was called setting a scene. Lull the boy into some sense of security; not that this boy was stupid enough to get secure in this place—give a little, maybe. (Like he's doing right now, standing in the living room, and thinking about--) His ass. (--the cold and the shower and it really isn't a good idea to get naked here. But a shower, a shower sounded so nice. Warm or hot and it was fucking cold. Take off his clothes, get into the shower—what if—)

Wasn't stopping him, all those doubts, the what ifs, and how abouts. Some serious thought in his brain about how Schuldig might want to hurt him. (And some other thoughts that have nothing to do with hurting, right?) Clinging to his towel like some security blanket. But his footsteps down the hall, into the bathroom, closing the door now.

Cold won out. (And yet, your dumb ass is still shivering naked in the middle of his bedroom.) Yes, well. Dragged a pair of pants on, loose sweats, they were just temporary. Didn't want a shirt. It would just stick to his skin and absorb the water, maybe the mud too, and then he'd have to fucking get it off. (Whining again?) Indulging the urge a little. Bad night, stupid Estet agents and their high and mighty bullshit, pulling rank where they had none; bad day before that. Been awake too long, put up with too much bullshit and kept his mouth shut like a good little boy.

(Yet--) Waited until the shower turned on before he went back out, picked up Omi's dripping wet clothes, hands wiggling down into the pocket of the pants to pull the little sheathes of shuriken, dropped those on the floor and bundled it all up into one big ball. Held it under his arm and pulled open the door—fucking water dripping down his side, soaking the waist band of his pants already. Shiver running down through his body, all the way to his bare feet on the cold stairs. (What is it you're doing exactly?) Finishing the scene. Put a little effort into it already, had the boy naked and in his shower (right, because locking those keys in your car and falling down into that canal was all part of your master plan right?) No. But it would be a shame not to take advantage of a situation. It would be a shame to lose it now just because Omi pulled an offended (not quite) virgin act. Stormed out with indignant rage and all the assurance in the world that he would—never (at least not again.)

Dropped Omi's clothes in the washer in the basement. (Can't go anywhere if he hasn't got any clothes, right?) Exactly. Too cold down here, drafty as shit and the floor was freezing—the whole side of his pants wet again and he was just fucking _cold._ Made it back up the steps as fast as he could manage it, starting to hurt now, his knees and his ankles, his elbows—wrists. Too cold and getting stiff. Kicked the door shut after him, shoving at the pants already sagging down off his hips, they slid down and off—left those in the hallway.

Pushed the bathroom door open, heard the start in Omi's mind, but ignored it. Warm in here, with the steam, made his skin prickle. Stepped up to the shower, pushed the door open, and stepped in. Half a breath of time—caught the edge of Omi's stare before the nearly too hot water hit is skin (fuck, that almost hurts.)

"What the fuck?" Omi's voice, drowning in the spray of water and the tightening itchy burn of the warmth hitting his too cold skin.

"My turn," Schuldig said. Six seconds of thought to that (nice and warm here, and he was still too cold. Wouldn't be that bad, could stay—but no) and then Omi was shoving past him to get to the door. Schuldig let him go, slipping into the direct spray, turning around, head tipping back. Hands digging into his hair, pulling where the mud was caked in it, tangled and stringy. Heard the bathroom door bang shut—Omi heading out to where he thought his clothes were. Got the shampoo, pressed it between his hands, and then into his hair—counting the seconds it would take Omi to find his clothes gone, to find Schuldig's still there and come up with some kind of enraged and offended retort to this.

Almost had his hair rinsed out when the door to the bathroom was pushed open. Quiet and calm and something decidedly deadly about that, soft pat of footsteps and the door to the shower sliding open again. Omi's perfectly pleasant smile, sweet almost. (Poisonous. Could kill people with that smile on his face.) "Schuldig... where are my clothes?"

Schuldig looked at him, dragging his fingers down through his hair, the last of the soap suds running down his back and chest. "Washing." And picked up the soap—dropped the eye contact. Still had mud on the back of his arms where the shower hadn't washed it off yet—and dirt under his fingernails. Worked at those first, rubbing his fingertips into a palm full of soap.

Didn't look up, but felt Omi's mind—could imagine the smile on his face just as sweet and loving as a newborn kitten. Mewling and innocent (ready to stab you to death in seconds if it becomes necessary. That's the real definition of Omi's sweet smile.) "_Where_ exactly are they washing?"

Picked at the stubborn dirt under his middle finger, back still to the spray of the shower—that much of him at least getting warm finally. But the water was starting to cool off. (Can't catch a break, huh?) Switched hands, right fingertips against his left palm. "In the basement." Offhand, like it didn't matter.

"In... the basement. How convenient." And if this were different, if Omi thought he could get away with it—he'd be ever so nicely asking (ordering) him down to the basement to get his clothes. (Soapy and wet not an improvement on muddy and wet.) "Seems how you've been _kind_ enough to wash them for me, would you mind loaning me something to wear?"

Got it. Clean, finally. Had to pick the last of the mud out from under his thumb there sometime around the time Omi was saying something about being kind. Looked up at him—water getting cool on his back and he wasn't even warm yet. Considered it. Kind of tilted his head a bit, looked at the towel around Omi's waist, then back up at his eyes. "I find it extraordinarily convenient really," he assured him. Then turned the water off and cut off any sort of sweet-and-deadly response Omi might have had ready to come out of his mouth. "I'm assuming those eyes in your head work; therefore you are capable of realizing that we don't even begin to wear the same size of clothes. I might have a shirt—if you really want it." And stepped out of the shower, right next to him, brushing against Omi—and grabbed the other towel off the rack.

(Should really think about turning the heat on.)

"This way," he said without turning around, rubbing the towel across his chest and arms as he left the bathroom. Down the hall ten steps and left into his bedroom. Heard Omi's thoughts, a little louder now (_So, why are you standing here balking and fuming _now_? You know what's going to happen._) Did he? Made things simpler that way. (_You knew back when he invited you up here, and don't pretend you didn't._)

Felt it, almost like an audible snap, when Omi decided—his footsteps following Schuldig. Quiet resolution to stop resisting it. Made it to the door about the same time Schuldig was rubbing the towel against his hair, just dry enough to stop the dripping down his back, and then tossed it toward the door, it hit the wall and slid to the ground. Looked over at Omi. "Shirts are in there," pointing at the closet. "Bed's right here."

(All that set up and this is the offer you make?)

He'd take it or he'd walk around shivering in a T-shirt. Up to him, Schuldig was fucking cold and he was getting in the bed. Pulled the covers down and sat on the bed; didn't look at Omi. Not yet anyway, gave him time to mull it over.

(_And that was a blatant invitation, wasn't it? Going to take it? You'll have to--he's not going to push you against a wall and pet you until you say 'yes' this time._) Chewing on that thought, couldn't quite give in to it, something in his head, saying no. Couldn't do it. Just couldn't. (_Sure you can. Just go lay down like a good neko._) Shivering now, cold in that doorway. But no, couldn't do it. (_Fine then, go put on a shirt and find a corner to sit in until your clothes are dry. And later, when you're home alone rubbing one off you think about this moment and remember that you preferred option number one._)

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow, considered saying something, doing something—(make it easier on him so he can blame you?) No. Schuldig was cold, the air was cold and his hair was wet. Slid back onto the bed, dragged the blankets up and looked back over at Omi-- "Well?"

(Second verse, same as the first.)

Omi considering it—not really, a little maybe. Decided against it almost instantly. (_Wimped out after all._)

Bad day, remembered that fucker blowing smoke in his face with all the arrogance in the word and some lopsided pervert's grin on his face, Crawford's stubborn silence on the matter and that look over at him—let it be, Schuldig. Let it be for now.

Let it be. Fuck letting it be, fuck this boy here that had followed him and knew what he was doing and right here on the threshold of it decided oh, wait—maybe not. Fucking little boy—Was out of the bed, across the floor, hands sliding across Omi's chest, the other curling around his shoulder, pushing him—three steps to the wall, awkward with Omi stumbling, tensing against it—or not; didn't have time to get it in his head before his back hit the wall. Schuldig's hand up off his shoulder, slipping around to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his cold hair and tipped his face up.

Kissed him. Frustrated maybe, too close and hungry. More than it had been the last time—

Omi's hesitation (_well _now_ what are you going to do?_) Gave a push against his chest, tried to slide a little to the right—not really, not enough force to it. Hadn't stopped kissing him to do it either—had to do it. (Is he still trying to be the good boy?)

Schuldig broke the kiss, pressed his forehead against Omi's, licked his lips and that close, brushed his tongue across Omi's mouth—couldn't see anything except the blue of Omi's eyes. "Bed," he said, hand running down Omi's arm, fingers curling around his wrist. "I'm cold and we did this standing up last time."

A nod of Omi's head, not much, just the downward tilt of his chin—might not have seen it but felt the press against his own forehead and felt the lips moving against his. Breathe of a word there, such pretty give in it. "Okay." That mind, opening up, past the cold and to that other part that lived and thrived on the feeling of skin against skin.

Stepped away, pulling Omi's hand, tugging him fast enough that forward inertia quickened his step—almost like a push—and Omi's knees hit the mattress first, half look back over his shoulder, Schuldig right there behind him, hands up against his shoulder blades, smoothing up to his shoulders and pushing. (Don't stop now.) Omi leaning forward, knee up on the mattress and his hand—crawling up into the bed, Schuldig following him.

Kicked the blankets down past his feet then sat up to drag them up, over him and Omi—(body heat or no, he was still fucking cold)—and shifted closer, cool skin to Omi's cool skin, their thighs, bellies and his hand on Omi's chest. Looking down at him for a minute, watching him look. Listened to the nearly rhythmic rise and fall of his thoughts, drifting out of focus now, just another whisper in the din of voices. Schuldig leaned down, kissed him again, laying against his side with the blankets heavy across his shoulders.

Omi starting to move under him. Kissing him back, opening up more—the feel of his tongue against his. Rolling a little toward him to press back, one of his legs pulling up, knee tenting the blanket. Chilly fingers up on his shoulders, and higher, one around the back of his neck and a breathy gasp into the kiss.

(His mind, though.)

Schuldig shifted again, one leg between Omi's. Getting warmer now, the heavy blankets and the body against his. Rubbed his hand up and down Omi's chest, and belly—no mistaking the intent in it. Not the same slow and sweet touches as the last time. Something more immediate—(had a bad day, too cold and now I want something that feels nice and warm.)

(Could have just slept.) Could have, but wasn't this a nicer alternative?

Moved, shifting his weight now, onto that leg between Omi's, hand going down, tugging at Omi's thigh, wanting him to move his leg, give him room—pulled his leg over between Omi's. Nice shiver running through the body under him; had nothing to do with the chill. With the fingers across his skin, maybe, the palm flat and pressing.

Omi's hands moving now, down from his shoulders, on his back, fingernails against skin. Low down, around his ribs, pulling against him and then around the front. Soft touches, still hesitant, his thumbs rubbing in against skin.

Schuldig pulled out of the kiss, his cheek against Omi's as he dipped his head lower, tongue and lips against his jaw, and lower, down his neck, teeth nipping at the skin, tongue soothing it. Strange how it tasted like his own soap— Let his hands drag, heavy touch, friction over skin—still too cool to sweat. Omi pressing up against the touch, another gasp, hands moving around to his back again, petting up to his shoulders. That blanket slipping down, somewhere around his hips now—the air cool but it was starting not to matter much.

Pressed against Omi like this, mouth sucking on his skin and those thighs against his side—getting warm now. Listened to Omi's breath catching; short whine there. Or a whimper or something—could feel it under his mouth, in Omi's throat. (And his mind—hovering around that thought. Wanted to touch his hair, probably shouldn't, but wanted to.) Fingers still up on Schuldig's shoulders, restlessly rubbing against him.

Schuldig let one hand press against the bed, dropped it down to his elbow, so his belly was pressing against Omi, and move down, thighs against the bottom of his ribs now—mouth trailing lazily down Omi's chest. (Awful lot of preshow for a quick warming fuck.) Free hand sliding down, over the slim line of Omi's belly, felt the muscles moving, and lower, round the curve of his hip, and fingers digging into his thigh. Light squeeze, and release, rubbed, curling around, fingertips against the inside—just rubbing.

Shivering there again, felt it everywhere against him, looked up at Omi through the fall of his still wet bangs. Tremble to his jaw, his head tipping back, mouth open with a little gasp—another almost whine. (Loves it, felt it in his mind and it almost made him echo that gasp.) Felt it in the fingers in his hair, petting, and on his shoulders, dipping down against his back—restlessly moving. Pressing harder now.

Lower, tongue trailing down across Omi's ribs, hand pressing against his thigh, rubbing still and pushing the leg up and out of his way—licked the skin down, down, over his shivering belly. Muscles fluttering under the skin and hips shifting under his chest. His body pressed against Omi's left leg, trapped between his arm and his side. Bent his head in, tongue following the line of Omi's hip—another gasp there, hands curling in his hair tighter. Mind wide and bright and full of all the possibility. Schuldig's fingers curling in tighter, palm rubbing harder against that thigh, slipping down, closer to his hip, shiver of sensitive skin.

(He's warm now--)

Yes. Looked back up at Omi, his own mouth open, panting a bit. (Oh, look, you're getting warm too. Now fuck him before you pass out. Sex and no sleep for almost two days don't mix well.) Completely willing now, that mind and the look in Omi's eyes. All half lidded like that—fuck—and the fingers on his shoulders still. Absently petting or tugging at his hair.

Could have taken more time—could have kept touching with his mouth and his tongue and seen how far he could push him—and oh that idea had merit. (And oh, the last time you had sleep was somewhere around twenty eight hours ago. Let's be realistic. You're pushing your luck now.)

Moved back up, hand slipping off Omi's thigh, up and pressed against the bed as he shifted his body weight back up, hips pressed tight to Omi's and rubbing. Mouth back on his. Greedy needy kiss, filled with some noise rising out of his chest. Pulled away again, breath heavy, hips pressing down— Omi's mind shuddering with it—felt good that. Teeth bared and let his head drop forward, just briefly, and then reaching back across the bed, tugging open the drawer of his bedside table. Omi made a little noise—didn't like that. (Hoping that he'd left the lube there—could have moved it to the bathroom or lost it in the couch or—)

"Fuck," he said. It wasn't there. Shoved the hair out of his face. And pulled a bit farther away from Omi—wiggling closer to the edge of the bed, reaching his hand down, feeling around under the bed—couldn't find it. Kept looking because it had to be there. (Today? Right, because your luck has been so fucking good today.) Reached up higher, closer to the wall—felt the edge of the tube and grabbed it. Looked back over at Omi. (You saw nothing, right?) No he saw, first your keys, then your tumble, now your quest for the lube.

Fuck.

Kissed Omi again, moving back between his legs. Pressing him down into the mattress with the weight of his body and rubbing against him again. (Yes, distract him with the tinglies and he'll never remember.) Hand on his shoulder now, broke the kiss to breathe and flipped open the top to the lube. Had to shift his weight again. Omi helpfully moving his legs up. Shivered at the chill to the lube—fucking cold and hadn't they just gotten warm? (Condom?) Didn't have one, didn't care to find one—handful of lube and hissed at the cold of it against him, hard pant of breath.

Omi making some noise, Schuldig looked down at him, snapped the lube shut again, tossed it at the wall and kissed him again, hand down between them, felt his forearm rubbing against Omi and heard the stutter of breath at that—pressed against him, slipping with the lube— Omi broke the kiss, head rolling back, whimper or whine, muscles tightening and releasing, and a shuddering breath out. Schuldig's forehead against Omi's damp shoulder, breath puffing against his chest, hands curling in the sheets. Still for now. Eyes closed—feeling it. His mind, his voice, his body shifting and shivering—legs up against his sides, curling around him.

Turned his head, ran his tongue across the mark he'd left earlier, pressing in, grinding his hips against Omi's, shifting on his knees a bit, rubbing him inside—those hands in his hair again, or on his back. Schuldig pushing himself up, hand still fisted in those sheets, moved then. Short little rock of his hips, Omi moving under him, wriggling, trying to pull his legs up farther—Schuldig helped, wrapped a hand around his knee to pull it up higher, pressed against his ribs again.

Pressed in again—gasping whimper there, Omi's head rolling back, neck bare again, eyes closed. (Think he wants more of that.) Yes, watched Omi's face—rocking against him. Muted urgency to the moves, pushed himself up more, watched Omi's face, blush creeping up from his neck. Mouth open—those noises. The pink of his tongue across his lips. His hands falling out of Schuldig's hair, on his shoulders now, fingernails digging in—on his arms.

More now, needed more, wanted more—those noises, fuck, those noises. His hair swaying with the movements, tips brushing back and forth across Omi's chest, his shoulders, against his neck— Legs slipping again as they tried to stay up, sweaty and slick now-- Schuldig pressing in harder, breath panting hard through his clenched teeth.

Omi's fingers tangling in his own hair now, head tipping back, body shivering with it, rocking back against him and pulling him down with his legs. The tight muscles of his thighs flexing against his waist. Schuldig dropped down, on his elbow, hand moving down, slipping under Omi's leg, holding it up, hand against his knee again.) Kissed him—sloppy, breathy and wet. Short and quick, another one and then another. Rocking in time with the thrusts, Omi's whimpers-- Schuldig's belly rubbing against him now and he could feel it in that mind.

Touched everywhere like that, inside and outside, and _wanting_ it. (Oh, fuck, that mind.) Grated out a word that could have been fuck or Omi's name or something else. Came out as a moan. Omi scratching at his back now, or grabbing his hair—rubbing back, eager and wanting and so close—

Schuldig's mouth against his neck again, tongue against his skin, sweat and soap. Omi's back arching, pressed up against him, head rolling back, soundless gasp and his mind-- Sunburst.

Felt fingernails in his shoulders and breathed a needy curse, pressing in—faster, no rhythm, just the need of it—feeling Omi all around him, shivering and shuddering and gasping at him again. Moment held and made longer, Schuldig's teeth clenched, (oh fuck _yes_) pressed to his neck.

Shivering with it, pulse still throbbing with it, but let his hand slid off Omi's leg, down, to his hip, and then onto the bed, resting against him, muscles tired and languid. Just catching his breath now. Warm.

Cool air, but warm skin and warmth under him, turned his head so he could hear Omi's heartbeat while it slowed back down, fingers against his back and hair. Yawned.

(Fucking exhausted.)

Wiggled a little. Moving off Omi, toward the inside of the bed, still against him, but his head on the pillow, one palm resting on Omi's chest. Wanted the blankets, wanted to stay where he was. (Lazy bastard. You should shower.) No. Could do that later. Tired now. Warm again.

Caught the blankets with his foot, dragged them up high enough to get at them with his hand, and then pulled them up to his shoulders, over Omi—another yawn.

Sleep.


	3. Change Your Mind

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Weiss Kreuz. I don't own a Rubik's cube, either, and I never have been able to figure the dang things out.

**Pairing:** Schuldig/Omi. Yes, it is consensual. No, it is not crack, nor is it ridiculous and unjustified.

**Casey would like you to note:** This fic was written jointly with an awesome author by the name of **Card** who does not have a ffnet account. This is posted in a few other places but it seemed prudent to put it here since it only does a handful of people any good for it to be up on my LJ these days.

* * *

**Change Your Mind**

For a few minutes it was warm and perfect. Heavy blankets over him, arm across his stomach and fingers still brushing a bit over his side, breath evening out and body relaxing, thinking seriously about a nap. Thinking not much about anything else at all. Quiet and peaceful and so mercifully warm.

Then Schuldig rolled over and took half the blankets with him.

That wasn't so bad--Omi had once been shipped off to Sapporo for a week with Ken, brief undercover mission and they'd had to share close quarters, and damn if Ken didn't like to kick in his sleep and tug the covers up so his feet stuck out. That was before Youji and Aya, and he preferred not to think how that particular job would have gone with one of them instead of Ken. Of course, Aya would have been stoic and disgruntled and would probably have slept sitting propped up against the door or something, and Youji would have found a more entertaining bedmate and left Omi alone for the night. In all likeliness, anyway.

Schuldig's apartment, though, was fucking cold, and the bit of sheet he'd been left with wasn't doing much to keep that cold away from his skin. He grumbled, tugged a bit at the covers but Schuldig was gradually inching himself into the center of the bed, all but shoving Omi towards the edge. Totally unaware and unconcerned, in his sleep, that he was sharing this space with another body.

Figured.

Omi finally rubbed his eyes awake and sat up, legs dangling over the edge of the bed and let Schuldig have his space and cocoon of blankets. Shivered and stood up, wandering over to the closet to look for the proffered shirt, choosing a white button-down at random and pulling it on--had to roll up the cuffs and the thing fit him almost like an incredibly skimpy dress. He paused buttoning, the thought finally floating to the surface of his mind. _So... what're you going to do now?_

Oh shit, school.

He was halfway to the door before the reality of this little scenario sunk in. Clothes--somewhere in the basement, no telling where exactly and they couldn't be dry yet, there might not even _be_ any dryers and he'd have to string them up out on the balcony and wait. And even assuming that, he wasn't going to go out like this, nothing but a shirt--definitely not taking the stairs, someone coming up might get an eyeful, not taking the elevators like this, either. Even if he pawed through Schuldig's clothes for some pants, it was patently obvious that he was wearing someone else's clothes, and out in the halls, in the stairwells, who knows whom one might run into? And you know how people are, in apartment buildings--they watch their neighbors, even when they act like they don't, and there was no doubt that everyone in this building knew exactly what unit the redheaded gaijin who kept strange hours lived in. And oh, did you hear? The other day this high-school boy was going in and out of there dressed in clothes five sizes too big for him; oh, _scandalous_.

Reputation, damn it to hell, was fragile. There was no leaving this apartment, not without careful timing and his own clothes on.

_School!_

Searched the living room and kitchen, all the countertops until he found a cell phone, picked it up and quieted his mind for a moment to remember the number. Nothing new here, calling in sick, usually due to sheer exhaustion after going days on little to no sleep, missions and schemata and planning and hours writing reports or searching data, hacking through the world's network and pulling out little chunks of it. And realistically he could have called in a lot more often than he did, but tuition was expensive and wasting it wasn't so much of an option. Living on his own, though, over the winter--no missions, no late nights, no Weiss--it had been a while since he was so much as late to class in the morning.

The secretary was on and he faked a hoarse voice--which surprisingly wasn't difficult, just what kinds of noises had he made when--no, he was sure he'd be okay tomorrow, just a bit of a cold, some rest would take care of it. Thank you very much, ma'am, you have a lovely day. Turned the phone off and set it down, staring at it like it might start ringing, some force of nature or other on the line telling him that Tsukiyono Omi does not get days off, not sick days, not snow days, not any day that isn't spent working or studying or otherwise making himself useful for Kritiker and society as a whole.

Silence. Well, what now?

* * *

He raided Schuldig's fridge first. Not much in the way of cuisine there, mostly heat and eat, instant stuff, cold drinks. He pulled a bottle of Ramune out of the door and set the teapot boiling for a cup of ramen. Pocky, wasabi chips. Junk food. Ken would be scandalized.

Daytime television turned out to be not so hot. Game shows, variety shows, some anime here and there but nothing he found terribly interesting. Spent a while watching some overdone drama until he realized it resembled his life a little too closely and changed the channel.

Schuldig's apartment had lots of windows, and once the rain finally slowed to something more approaching a sprinkle it was worthwhile to look out them, busy people going about their busy lives. Monochrome umbrellas and crisply ironed suits. And you know, Tsukiyono, you're going to graduate in a little more than a month--and then what, you going to pretend to be one of them, too? Have a nice little suit and tie and a nice little briefcase, walk down the street to get on the nice little train every morning, go to work and bow to the nice little receptionist, go about your boring job and go home, or go drink, push paper until you're too old to care about much of anything other than earning enough to live in that nice apartment in Shibuya. Is that how an assassin meets his end?

No. No, it isn't, and it can't be, because Weiss may be dissolved, but that doesn't mean Kritiker let him go.

It wasn't like they ever would, either, too much time invested and too much knowledge in his head. Too much effort and money put into him and whatever they had done that took his memory away; whatever conditional 'training' he'd been given in those hazy months before he was fully awake. And he knew they had, no matter how often Persia or Manx made that assertion, that he was his own person and had the right to his choices. Because when it came down to it, there was always that suggestion, right there in his mind. Always a wall that made him stop, always a tug that made him go back to them, tell them what he'd seen. What had happened. Yes, there's a problem with Abyssinian. Yes, Siberian spooked the target. Yes, of course, I'll keep an eye on them all.

And what would they think of you now, half naked and lounging around in your enemy's apartment, eating his junk food and messing with his electronics after a nice round of morning sex? What, you don't have any conditioning specific to this kind of scenario, no trigger to keep you from lying down and writhing when someone touches you just right? Maybe Kritiker didn't cover all their bases after all--because you waffle and sidestep and try to escape, but once someone pushes you past that point...

Well, needless to say Schuldig was good at pushing, and probably knew about that button better than Omi did. Should ask him, sometime; ask him what he sees in your head. Whether it can be rewired.

_Dangerous thought. Stop right there._

He stood up abruptly, turning his back on the windows and returning to the fridge for another soda, picking up the cell phone on the way and just holding in for a minute. Trying to remember his number--gave it to Omi in that email, half in caps lock because Ken was trying to thumb-type a letter on his cell and coach soccer at the same time.

Calling him now, here. Not going to outpour all the events of the morning, not going to tell this time. Not to Ken, or anyone, and that--wasn't _that_ interesting? Punched in the number and listened to the tone.

_Ring._

"Hello? Who is this?"

Sneaking suspicion in Ken's voice, unlisted number showing no doubt. Fortunate, explaining Schuldig's name attached to it would have been difficult. "It's me."

"Omi!" Genuine surprise there, warming. Omi smiled a little, to himself, walked back across the living room to the couch, rested his chin on the back of it to continue watching the ant-people scurrying about on the streets. "Damn, I didn't expect to hear from you out of the blue. What's up? Did something happen?"

That intent, the assumption--you wouldn't have called unless you had something to say, unless there was business to be dealt with. You wouldn't call without a reason. Omi blinked a moment, arm dangling over the back of the couch, reflection in the window blinking back at him, raindrops creeping across it and down. Reached up to poke at one, finger tracking it across the glass. "I just wanted to call you."

He heard the pause on the other end of the line, a moment where Ken was deciding how to react to that, to launch in on Omi--no, really, what's going on? Why aren't you on your own phone and what's with that tone of voice and since when do you call people because you _feel_ like it?

Well, you see, Ken, I'm kind of trapped in Schuldig's apartment at the moment with no clothes, and you know I had sex with him this morning, totally willingly, and by the way it was really good--I've done it before, you know, did I never tell you about that? And so all this has caused me to rethink my motivations and wonder if this whole Weiss arrangement is really over. Whether I can let it be over, whether I'll be allowed to let it. Whether an agent is going to walk through this door any second now and drag me back to headquarters for reprogramming. I know Persia's dead now and I know there's no one looking over my shoulder anymore but I can't get used to that. I don't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

Ken, what's it like to be free? You still remember that, don't you?

"Okay, then." Mental shrug on Ken's part--probably a physical one, too, knowing him. Could almost see it. "Hold on--damn rain, I'm still soaked here." Sound like a towel rubbing in his hair.

"You too?" The words were out of Omi's mouth before he realized it, small chuckle. Imagined the look on Ken's face.

"Oh? Were you running this morning?"

"Yeah, it was pretty nasty."

Ken laughed. That was good to hear. "Hey, shouldn't you be in school? Or don't they care so much this close to graduation?"

"Not so much, I suppose. Everyone else is cramming for their college exams."

Strange pause there, could almost hear Ken blinking. "Oh. Um, don't you need to study, too?" Nothing pointed or admonishing in that tone, Ken had that genuine quality. Even when he was awkward.

"I'm not going to college."

"You're not? Why?" More genuine there--surprise, and if he was there he'd be rubbing his forehead, staring at the floor. Long moment of silence and then a hurried, "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I kind of thought--"

"With my grades and my positive attitude and efficiency at test-taking I could apply to a college of my choice, prepare for a suitable career and ensure my future," Omi finished in a monotone. "Yes, that's exactly what my counselor said."

"Oh." Nothing said for a minute while Ken processed that, stored it away and decided it seemed best not to address it further. "So, what have you been up to, then?"

Omi looked around the room, couch and chairs and TV and windows and all the scattered signs of Schuldig's life. "Nothing really. You?"

"Coaching. It's really fun, actually." Heard the warmth there, in Ken's voice, the tone he got whenever he talked about soccer. The envious state of truly and completely loving what one does for a living--even in a past tense. "So... Omi--" Something awkward there, but Ken was cut off by a gruff, almost stern 'Hidaka, we need you over here.' Ken being called away. "Sorry, I have to go. Can I call you back?"

Really, he paused longer than was strictly necessary. Something else to clue Ken in that he was off today. "I borrowed this phone, actually. One of my classmates." Pretty lie, that. "I'll get back to you later, okay?" Another one, ought to start keeping score for the day.

"Oh, okay. Sure." So much genuine happiness. "Later."

Omi pushed the end button, slowly folded the phone closed, loud click in the silence. Slowing patter of rain and the honk of a horn from somewhere on the street. Television on mute. The bottle of Ramune was still in his hand, sweating now and not as cold as it had been ten minutes ago. Condensation rolling off and dripping onto his bare thigh.

He opened it, popped the marble and took a long drink, leaning back on the couch until his legs were stretched out, pale against the dark brown fabric.

Wondered when Schuldig would wake up. Wondered what Ken had been called away to do.

* * *

The computer was tucked away in its own corner of the living room, quiet on a clutter-free desk. Omi had noted it earlier, contemplated it and ultimately left it alone until all the other options had been attempted and abandoned. Bored with the TV, bored with Schuldig's German movie collection and German book collection and complete lack of video games. That had to be some sort of crime in Tokyo, for a residence to not have at least one console.

He sat backwards in the desk chair out of habit, crossing his arms over the backrest and waited for the system to boot. Made a face when it took too long--damn German telepaths, always waited too long to upgrade their systems. No love for the computers. Waited and frowned a bit at the roman keyboard, ignored it in favor of the desktop displaying and--

Damn it, the whole fucking thing was in _German_. This day could be going better for an impromptu vacation, really.

It wouldn't be so hard to navigate, still, but Schuldig seemed to have custom icons, and they were all pictures. Of himself. Who the hell was _that_ vain? Omi shook his head in a kind of stupor, leaning back. He could always make the computer display Japanese, of course, could even set it so it wouldn't display any other language just to be a pain in the ass--seriously, icons of _himself_? Schuldig more than deserved it.

Omi should have wanted to do just that, too. Should have immediately rolled the chair forward and got started without even pondering on it and finished off by making one of those icons into a screensaver with a big blinking arrow that read 'Flamboyant Narcissist' or something along those lines. But--just didn't feel like it. Not today.

Instead, he found himself picking up the Rubik's cube sitting on the corner of the desk, turning it over in his hands before giving it a few twists. Frowned. Turned it over a few more times, eyebrows drawing together in thought and made another, more calculated twist.

Echo in the back of his mind, something from training, somewhere in the middle of the fog. _Solve the puzzle, Omi._ Sickly sweet voice full of promises, always challenging but never awarding the prize. Hit this target, now this one, and the next. What, you want something, praise, some stupid incentive? Someday, boy, the fact that you are still alive will be its own reward. Now hit the goddamn target.

That may be, Omi thought, but I never knew that one day I'd have a preference for killing people over living a quiet, normal life.

He turned in the chair to face the hallway, waiting for Schuldig to wake up. And maybe, ultimately, that's why he was here. In Schuldig's apartment, in his shirt, still feeling a bit of that stretch from Schuldig inside him. Maybe he'd begun to understand, just a little, how it was in that particular camp--how one got to that mentality.

Omi gave the cube another twist, a bit of a smile as the pattern started to come together.

That, or he really was just that bored.

* * *

No--didn't want to be awake already. (Already?) Too soon if there was still sun coming in through the windows. Didn't even have to open his eyes to know the sun was still out, coming through the rain-soaked sky and--(_…on a leash—_) Half a thought, not even that, somewhere in the lower decimals of a whole thought, not even a full flavor to it--but the fact that he could hear it that loudly and closely and--

(Forgot that, already?) No. Rolled over on his back, looking across the room at the open door. Blankets tangled all around his waist, tugging him half back over on his side. Shouldn't Omi have grabbed his shuriken and ran for it as soon as the petting was over and the sweat had cooled? (You took his clothes; every action has an equal or greater reaction, right?) No. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. (Whatever. You took his clothes, pay the consequence of dealing with his--naked?--ass until you get them back to him.) Naked, he had very few problems with dealing with Omi. Naked Omi seemed to work out well enough for him.

Yanked the blankets from around waist, felt them stick and drag across his skin, had lift his hips off the bed to get them out from under him, and kicked them down. Sat up on the edge of the bed, one hand curling around the edge, the other rubbing against his face--brushing against the tangle of hair. Other voices coming into tune now, Omi's getting lost in there for now. Let it get lost, had to get to the bathroom first, find a brush, get pants and then he'd listen to those thoughts.

Hungry; get some food. Get some food and then deal with (naked) Omi.

Pushed himself up to his feet, not nearly awake enough, arms over his head, stretching. And then scratching at his stomach where it was sticky and itching. (Should have taken a shower.) Yeah, should do that now. Or later or some time. Shook the hair out of his face, moving now, out of the bedroom, found pants in the hallway and picked them up--last few footsteps to the bathroom.

Washed his belly before he pulled the pants on, picked up the brush off the counter and ran it through his hair. (Not too bad, all things considered.) Snagged a few times and spent almost ten minutes in front of the mirror picking the knots apart, and brushed it until it was smooth.

(You think Crawford would have something to say about leaving someone wandering around your apartment while you slept. Someone you know can kill and has weapons to do so? Bit arrogant isn't it?) Maybe. Sort of a moot point given that he was clearly still alive and his belongings were still all in their right places and with the exception of a couple of drinks.

Walked into the living room, glancing over--Omi in front of his computer (brat, didn't ask) one of his shirts on, collar hanging loosely open in the back and too long down his back. Saw the bend of one knee pulled up and felt the concentration in Omi's mind. (Found your Rubik's cube.) Good for him.

Into the kitchen, looking for something to eat--didn't want anything he had. (Why did you buy it then?) Would want it later, maybe--probably. Wasn't that hungry. Found a box of pocky, shook it--still some left. Opened it up, broke the package open. Chocolate ones. Sucked on one, left the box open on the counter and went back to the doorway, leaned against it and watched Omi.

Seventeen seconds, Omi knew he was being stared at, twenty-three when he gave in and said: "What?" to the silence. Didn't look at him, staring at the cube, working the puzzle in his mind.

Schuldig sucked on the chocolate in his mouth, considering the possibilities. (Considering that Omi's half-naked and seems to have no objections to his current location and if he's here-- Future plans allowed little time for idle distractions.) "Don't you usually run away after we fuck? No, I guess I left last time." Saw his phone on the low table in front of the couch. (Not where I left it.) Looked back over at Omi; no movement except another twist of the cube, lining up another row--nowhere near figuring it out.

"It was raining." (Has nothing to do with the fact that he's got no pants, you might note.) Low-toned thoughts in his head, working over the nature of his programming or whatever. Nothing interesting enough to dig through.

"Are we still operating under that excuse?" he said. Didn't push it, turned and went back for another stick of pocky. Unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth, tossing the wrapper into the sink. Back into the living room. Watched Omi again, felt his mind working through the puzzle, and sorting through its own endless little sorrows. (Not providing much entertainment is he?) Considered it, six seconds of thought to it, and he was across the room, hand around Omi, fingers closing around the cube, felt the start in Omi's mind--knew he was getting closer but not that close and--didn't want to give the toy up. Schuldig pulled it free and went over to the couch, fell back onto it, leaning back against the arms and looked at what Omi had done. "Laundry's in the basement," he said off hand.

Anger there now, bright. Omi standing up. "I've been working on that for two hours, don't mess it up!" Standing there in front of him, reaching forward to grab the cube, fingers just around it and almost had it, pulling on it lightly--Schuldig letting him get a grip and then he yanked it down. (Oh, he doesn't like that.)

And yet this was not a matter of what Omi liked, considering he was in Schuldig's apartment, playing with his toy and wearing his shirt. (Yes, but the sharp things by the door are still his and lets not make him decide he needs to see how far into you he can stick one.) Schuldig slid down the couch, holding the toy in close to his chest--blunt edges pressing to his ribs. Crunched the pocky stick and got to his feet. "It didn't seem to matter that I could have been working on it when you decided to play with it."

(So--the operating strategy here is: 'he's seen me lose my keys, my balance and my lube, then spent several hours wandering around my apartment planting his naked ass wherever he wants, and he's a good lay therefore I can act as completely childish around him as possible, never mind there's a possibility I will want him to still fear me later?') Could still fuck his mind over if necessary for the sake of future intimidation. The future wasn't the immediate concern. (Oh of course not, because you're not a precog, right? Make excuses. That's always good.)

Omi, mind rolling over--yeah, whatever and give me a break. "It didn't seem to matter to you that you slept the day away leaving me here with no clothes and nothing to do."

Schuldig smirked at him, nothing rude, just a smirk and a raise of an eyebrow, eyes dropping down to look at what he was wearing, where the tails of the shirt ended on his thighs. "Obviously you found clothes and seeing how I was in my own bed I feel no guilt for having slept." He tossed the toy back at Omi. "I'm hungry." (Turns out two sticks of pocky aren't a full meal.) Walked back across the room, floor cold under his feet and into the kitchen.

Heard Omi's quiet pad of footsteps as he followed him. "I ate some of your ramen, by the way. And some chips. And pocky. And drank two sodas."

Schuldig looked over at him. "Piglet."

Omi twisting the cube in his hands again, an almost shrug--an implied shrug. No concern really. "I'm a growing boy."

Rummaged through the cabinet for something he wanted to eat--didn't want to eat any of it; never did really, but it was food and it was easy and here. Picked the first thing that fell onto the counter. Stared at the damn Japanese on the package, focusing his mind around the characters of the words.

"Just don't grow too much, I only like the _short_ big eyed Japanese boys." (And somewhere, Nagi's heterosexuality is cringing at that statement.) Wondered if he could get Omi to make the damn food for him since Japanese was his native language and he was used to reading this shit anyway.

Another twist--half twist--Omi looking up. "I'm not _short_." And even if he were, there were benefits--like fitting in ventilation shafts and a nice grocery list of other things Kritiker had trained him to do. Nothing like taking pride in your job when it involves occasionally wearing skirts and pretending to be a slightly airheaded blonde girl. Didn't prove Omi's point though, and there was some frown of irritation in his mind. "And I don't use pictures of myself as computer icons."

Schuldig smiled, something almost like a laugh, (inside joke, don't ask) and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't leave my clothes lying around unattended on the floor to take a shower when I know the person I'm leaving them with doesn't have enough of a conscience not to take advantage of the fact I'm already naked." Decided Omi probably wasn't going to make the damn noodles for him (or else decided not to ask him to) and just put hot water in them.

Another twist of the cube somewhere in the middle of what he was saying, Omi's mind flexing around the words, not putting much effort into being offended by them--working through the puzzle and the words--had a comeback in his head, could feel it forming and then Omi looked up at him, mouth open to say it--saw him running hot water in the sink. Package of noodles on the counter. "You know you're supposed to boil the water first, right?"

"Nagi probably told me about that last time he was here. I haven't noticed a difference in the flavor so I side with my own laziness." (Why not just show the kid where you keep your IDs so he can get your real name, bank card and hack into your past? Find out you used to wear knee high socks and lederhosen and leave your shoes out to get candy from the Christkind?) "Did you get what you wanted?"

"Did you get what _you_ wanted?"

"Yes. Well, I thought I might get a little more participation from the audience considering the horizontal nature of the performance--but, it was good enough." Stirring the noodles in their cheap little microwave safe bowl, and then set them down on the counter and pushed the paper back over them to keep the heat in.

Omi mulling over the thought--another twist and his mind ticking away at that problem, half devoted to the conversation at hand. Decided on his next move and twisted the cube, decided it was a bad move and twisted it back to where it started. Then looked up at him. "Was that a thinly veiled insult or an observation to bear in mind for the future?"

(For the future?) "Call it constructive criticism." He picked the noodles up and stirred them again, figured they were eatable and carried them out of the kitchen, stepping past Omi to get through the doorway; smirking at the thoughts in his head now.

Analyzing the sex, now, low toned and wondering over it. Trying to figure out what it was that he had failed to do or not done enough of or--(_Like to see how much _you _participate with an ungodly tall German on top of you._)

Schuldig sat back down on the couch, slouching, feet up on the table, knees spread; bowl balanced against his chest and cradled in his hand. Snorted a bit. "You know, I never have fucked any Germans. Had an unnecessarily heavy American on top once." (And now we bring him into the conversation--see his face already with that slightly sour look. 'Don't bring me into your sex talk, Schuldig.') Took another bite of the noodles. Not quite cooked all the way through, and the broth was cooling down already.

Noted the lack of attention that cube was getting, now that Omi's mind was curling itself up in this idea of sex. "American? You mean Crawford?" Bad taste look on his face (and won't Crawford be disappointed to find out that little Omi Tsukiyono doesn't want him) as he crossed the room and sat on the couch, back against the arm and looking at him. Eyes dropping down to that damn cube again and trying to get his focus back on it.

Schuldig laughed. "He was available at the time." (Strange conversation to be having.) Took another bite, chewed it up--tasted gummy--and then leaned forward to set the bowl on the table. Finished chewing it up as he leaned back and looked over at Omi, following the line of the shirt as it dipped down his chest, and licked the taste of the broth off his lips. "Want to fuck?" (Your eloquence is truly shocking.)

"I was going to let you eat first."

"I'm done." And he waved a hand in the general direction of the bowl. Omi all staring back at the cube now, and not even noticing. (Now is this some kind of game or has the Rubik's cube been underestimated for too many years?) "You're never going to figure that out, just so you know."

"Why not?" No reason he couldn't, just a pattern, been trained to do that--taught to do it--tested on it. Applied the theory in his work, and this was just a toy. Just a matter of time and the pattern would show.

"I had Nagi peel the stickers off and put them back on in the wrong order--it pisses Crawford off that he can't figure it out. He has no idea."

Stopped, the thoughts and his fingers twisting the cube, looked up at him with at sweet and innocent smile--(violence there)--"How nice of you to inform me of this so _promptly_. I don't feel like I've wasted my day at all."

(Nice smile there, isn't it? Second time in one day you've gotten it. Could be some sort of record.) "Be glad I told you at all." (That was a completely selfish decision. Watching Crawford is fun--getting ignored in place of getting laid is not.)

Cube on his lap now, Omi's fingers still holding it loosely--not nearly as important to him now. Look on his face, assessing this bit of dialogue, and _there_ he'd figured it out. "You really want my attention that badly?"

(Should have let him play with the cube, don't really need his attention to fuck him.)

"Consider it practicality. Given that you are not an idiot nor singularly convinced of your own superior intellect, you would have realized eventually that there was a fairly high probability that the puzzle was not solvable. Having realized that you would have remembered it was in my possession, connected that with my tendency to irritate people for amusement and come into the belief that I purposefully messed up the cube. Which would have led to bitterness or me having to listen to you bitch about it in the future after you'd wasted much more than just two hours on it." (Only thing he doesn't have is the long standing knowledge of your personality--Crawford should have figured it out by now.)

"So you wanted my attention."

Felt the smirk across his face, almost like a real smile. "You are walking around without pants, wearing my shirt and I think I have already displayed more than a passing interest."

Answering smile on Omi's face, smug and amusement brightening in his mind. Nice tickling quality to it, like a chuckle. "Is that a 'yes'?"

(Gonna try to work your way around admitting this for the third time? As you have done such an excellent job thus far. Really.) "Yes." (Now ask yourself how you got from here to there. He used to hate you and fear you--and now he's sitting on your couch in your clothes smirking at you because you aren't even slightly fooling him.) Omi held out the Rubik's cube until Schuldig took it and dropped it on the couch on the other side of him. "Can we fuck now?"

(_Is he? He's _pouting. _Never once considered Schuldig and cute in the same context, but that---it would be adorable if it wasn't so goddamn funny._) Short laugh there, Omi caught between disbelief and plain good humor.

Schuldig moved, pulling his legs up onto the couch--one hand on Omi's leg, behind his knee, tugging him down a little so he could lean over him, hand against the arm of the couch and leaning down over him. "Of course I'm adorable." Smile on his face--(now you're playing with him and he's laughing at you)--"Shouldn't have taken you _this_ long to notice."

"So--should I laugh some more or take pity on you?" Lifted his hand to rest against Schuldig's shoulder--calm and unbothered by the weight against him, Schuldig leaning over him--close though. (Close enough to kiss.)

"You can do what you want." Kept one hand on the couch, the other dragging at the skin visible through the splay of the shirt collar, pulling it down, felt it drag, caught behind Omi's shoulders like that. And ran his hand down the line of the buttons. (Questioning it now; this compulsion. Blaming Estet for taking up too much of his time or Omi for standing out there at the right moment or-- Question it though, because attraction was based on some subliminal desire. What do you have that I want? Question that.) Hooked his thumb into the space between the buttons and rubbed against Omi's belly. "I don't believe in pity."

Little mental breath, liked the way it felt to be touched. "Because it's a manifestation of self-absorption or because you don't want it?" Omi's fingertips falling down, across his collarbone.

Pulled the shirt up, watched it lift up, and pulled it up enough to slip his hand under, right against the curve where Omi's leg met hip. Up, to his belly, fingers dipping around his body and then looked back up at him. "Because it's condescending and false." (Because pity means nothing more than emotional masturbation. Oh, I feel so sorry for you from over here where it's safe and you can suffer and I'll just tuck myself in at night safe in the knowledge that I felt bad for you but couldn't help.) "And it tastes like burnt chocolate."

Hands against his shoulders now, Omi pushing him back until he was slouching and following him, crawling into his lap and settling into place while his palms slid across his chest. "No pity for you, then." Brush of his lips against Schuldig's, light and soft and not quite a kiss yet. Would be.

(Tell yourself all you want from him is the feel of his mind while you fuck him. Couldn't be more than that, and is that enough to justify the means to the end?)

Schuldig's hands resting against Omi's thighs, loose grip, and he moved them up, leaning forward, his lips brushing back, almost a kiss still but not quite there. Felt the smoothness of Omi's belly, the tightness of the muscles under the soft skin, up to his ribs, fingers curling in and the shirt bunched around his arms.

Humming in Omi's mind, echoed down in his throat. Shiver under skin as his body pressed itself forward against him. Hands working their way over his shoulders, smoothing down the back of his arms.

(What does he have that every other pretty boy whimpering for you doesn't? A tighter ass, a nicer smile? A pocket of pointy things and the very real ability to kill you?) No.

Schuldig's fingers digging into skin, slipping down, dragging just above his hips, pulling Omi closer.

(A contradiction in his brain? Moral dilemma? Called you on your lie and wasn't that strange? How quickly he seems to forget what happened between you? Almost killed him and here he is, on your lap and in your shirt. Is that what this is? Just easy?)

Kissed him, pulled one hand out of the tangle of that shirt and up, fingers into Omi's hair, tipping his head and kissing him.

(Could be just easy with anyone—doesn't have to be him.)

Lost the thought somewhere between Omi's hands slipping lower, between the couch and his back and the mouth opening against his--kissing back, nothing in his head but the feel of the touch. Not doubting it or rethinking it or trying to fight it this time. Murmuring that hum again, pressing closer to his chest, so the buttons were rubbing against his skin.

Let his hand drop again, out of Omi's hair, on his neck, fingers down the back of the loose collar, and then moving down farther, over his shoulder, feeling the wrinkles in the fabric, the warmth of the body under it, down his back and rest there—momentarily—holding him close as he shifted his position on the couch, slouching more and pulling Omi into a better position. Rubbing right against his lap--warm skin, felt the heat of it through the thin cotton pants.

Kiss slowing, ending, Omi moving back first, nipping at his chin, hum ending in his throat and then he was leaning back, straightening up again. One hand still idly against Schuldig's skin, and the other against the back of the couch. Eyes looking at those windows and the world outside of it--light breaking through the clouds now; rain finally drying up off the ground. Omi's mind shifting, didn't care--didn't care at all if they could see in, see him, right here, like this, on Schuldig. Didn't care at all--hoped they did see. (Almost, not quite, not nearly that defiant.) Licking his lips now, eyes focusing back on him. "Seriously, though, boil the water next time." (Doesn't like the taste of half-cooked and gummy noodles.) Omi's fingers dropping to work at the top button of the shirt. Little frown of concentration.

Schuldig breathed a laugh, quiet and almost not even a real sound. "Taste that bad, huh?" Moved his hands off Omi, trailing back over the cushions of the couch on either side of him, and down, slipping into the crack, feeling around.

"You could use a mint." Got the first button open now and was working on the second one. Looked at his hands digging around in the couch. "What are you doing?"

(Looking for the lube I lost in here about a month ago--) can't even remember who he'd been fucking--remembered the mess the little bastard left on the table. "I'm--" Moved one hand back, around his own back, digging into space, feeling around. It was in here somewhere. "--Looking for--" Leaned to the right a little reaching farther toward the edge. (Oh perfect, wouldn't it be? Can't find the lube, gonna have to get up and go back to the bedroom and) felt the slick rounded top of the bottle. "The lube," he finished, tugging the bottle up and holding it up between them.

Smile there on Omi's face, almost laughing again. "Do you keep a bottle in the kitchen drawer, too? Or is it lost behind the refrigerator?"

Schuldig smiled back. "Never fucked in the kitchen, actually. Lost a bottle on the balcony once." Held the lube in one fist, the other hand raising up, fingers against Omi's neck, and down, over his collarbone, lower, following the open buttons, spreading out and sliding under the shirt, toward his shoulder, dragging the shirt open and up, over his shoulder. Pale skin for a Japanese boy, still darker than Schuldig's was. Bent his head down, hand moving down his back, dragging the shirt farther down Omi's arm, licked his lips and ran his tongue across the skin. Tasted a bit like dried sweat--licked his lips again.

Half-heard a thought in Omi's head. Wondering about that balcony comment, only a little. Omi still working on pulling the buttons open. Could feel his arms moving against his chest while he nipped at the skin of his shoulder, moving in toward his neck. Felt Omi shifting in his lap, a little squirm and pressing his shoulder up against him, tipping his head to one side just a little. More skin to explore with his mouth.

(Should get rid of him now.) Not immediately, after. (After you've still got to dry his clothes, remember?) No, just send them home a nice plastic bag. (Right.)

Moved his hand back up, palm against skin harder, over his shoulder, slipping across the wet trail left by his mouth and down, dragging over his skin, down to his chest. Palm flat and rubbing against him, his mouth on Omi's neck now, sucking at the skin. (Still tastes like your soap.) Short noise, couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be--moan, whine, whimper. Close to his ear, breathy and Schuldig sucked harder on the skin.

Omi's hands moving to his shoulders now, tugging him closer and he moved, back off the couch, pressing closer to Omi. Let his arm go around his back, still inside that shirt--two buttons at the very bottom still together. Collar slipping off Omi's shoulders and riding low on his arms. Schuldig lifted his leg a little, enough to get the bottle of lube under his thigh--to get a second free hand, to keep track of the damn thing--and rubbed against Omi's knee, fingers slipping up higher, could feel the loose ends of the shirt there, toyed with it.

Stopped sucking on that skin, licked it, felt the heat of it, breathed against the dampness of the skin, lifting his head up, cheek brushing against Omi's jaw, turned his head to look at him. Fine blush across his nose--matched the grip of the fingers on his shoulders, loosening now and petting him. Shifting in his lap--Schuldig pressed his heels against the floor and rubbed back up against that squirm, his own half-caught breath, almost a noise. His hand flat against Omi's back, the other up around his hip now, grip tightening, pulling down as he rubbed up.

Omi's exhaled pant, head tipping back, mouth open, pressing down against the rub. Felt the muscles in his thighs clench and loosen, fingers harder against Schuldig's skin and his mind, slipping right into the sex, whimpering and asking for more.

(Is this what he has? Could get this in other places.) Yes, but this one was right here and willing.

Schuldig kissed him--brief and wet, hips still rocking up and rubbing--fucking pants in the way because he could feel the warmth and the weight of Omi pushing back down. Little noises into the kiss and those hands slipping down his arms, gripping there and pulling in time with the grinding. Dropped the hand off Omi's hip, down, between them, thumb under the waist band of the sweats and yanking it down--awkward angle, and not moving much, too caught up in the rubbing and--

Omi's eyebrows drawing down, noticing this movement, the hand that wasn't on him, lack of rub--more like wiggling under him now--looking down between them, caught between annoyance for the pause and impatience for more. Pressed his knees into the couch and lifted himself up, thighs widening a bit, giving him room. Schuldig lifted his hips, shoulders back against the couch, both hands pushing the pants down, sliding much easier now, down to his thighs--far enough--and then reached up, gripping Omi's hips again and pulling him back down.

Kissed him again, moan into his mouth, hot skin against his. Slipped his hands up the back of the shirt, loose against his skin, guiding the movement, grinding up and Omi pressing down. His smaller fingers against Schuldig's skin, his back, his shoulders, his arms, restlessly tracing lines here and there. Answering moan back into the kiss, breaking it for a minute, just breathing against each other's mouths now.

Schuldig leaned back, against the cushion, one leg up so his foot was resting on the table (heavy fucker isn't it, lucky you) and grabbed for the lube still under his thigh, half caught in his pants now. Catching his breath--unscrewed the lid and looked at Omi, reached up to brush the hair out of his own face, felt it falling right back into place.

(You are going to shower after this right?)

Took Omi's hand off his shoulder, pulling it down, tipped the bottle--handful of lube, felt it dripping from between his fingers--warm drops on his chest, sliding down.(_Good, its _warm), Omi's thought. Low in his mind, holding it in his hand and then lowering it, eyes dragging down, following the movement, and Schuldig poured more out onto his own fingers, screwed the cap on one handed (years of practice to develop that skill) and dropped it on the couch. (Because that way you'll know where to find it right?) Stuttered gasp when Omi's hand closed around him, firm grim and stroking; Schuldig's eyes half closed, fingers clenching around Omi's knee--adjusting to the feel of it, other hand reaching down, between Omi's spread legs, fingers brushing up against him, rubbing, pressure, teasing but didn't push in.

Saw Omi through the tips of his bangs, eyes still half closed--saw his white teeth, closed around his lip, urgent whimpers. (More now, please, thank you.) Tugged him forward, slippery fingers around the inside of his thigh. Leaned back against the couch cushions, shifting to get more comfortable. (Come on, now.)

Omi's hand moving, lifting away from him and his hips following the tug of Schuldig's hands. Knees pressed deeper into the couch as Omi shifted his weight. His hand on the back of the couch--forearm brushing against Schuldig's hair--and the other on his shoulder, slippery grip to steady himself. Still worrying that lip with his teeth, concentrated, breath heavy and loud, and his head tipped down, watching. (Wonder if the neighbors are watching too?) Pushing down--Schuldig tipped his head back, felt Omi's fingers against the back of his head, mouth open, exhaled heavy breath--heard a whimper, rising out of Omi's chest as he sank down, tremble running through his body and could feel it--fuck, felt it right there, all around him.

Pressed up, against the feeling, sliding deeper and moved his hand, back up, around Omi's side, against the small of his back, pulling on him. Biting back the noises (feeling his mind, and wasn't that pretty, warm and wriggling). Licked his lips, pressing up again--Omi's eyes sliding open, looking at him; teeth off his lip now.

Could feel his fingers tightening into the couch behind him, hear the heavy pant of his breath--moving, rising up, knees dipping into the couch, arm flexing--could see the muscles there, under the skin, and Omi's eyes, looking right at him.

(Yes, I'm watching you.)

Schuldig pushed his foot against the table, pressing up as Omi pushed down. Rumbling little moan there, caught in his throat, mostly breath. Wiggled his hand up under the shirt, and slid down off his back, thumbs digging in against the edge of his hipbones, fingers curling around and gripping--pulling up, and tugging down. (Not making a difference, is it? You're not in control, lean back and enjoy it.) Wanted more.

The hand behind Schuldig's head moving, pulling free, the other slipping off his shoulder, trailing down his arm, still slippery but drying up--getting sticky now--down to his wrists, felt the thumbs against his pulse, pulling his hands off. (You wanted audience participation--now you have it; stop interrupting.) Loose grip on his wrists, Omi's thighs moving again--warm skin--up again, eyes still watching him. Sinking back down, little tremble, Omi's head tipping back and a breathy sigh, grinding down, grip shivering.

Pulled his hands free, back on Omi's knees, skin was slick with sweat now, rubbed his palms against it, tracing up and down with the movement; pressed his foot against the table, felt it shift against the shove--rubbed his hips up against Omi.

(Can't let it go, can you?)

His palms sliding up, under the shirt again and Omi's breath, heavy and loud and full of those noises in his throat. Whimper and whines and little moans. His hands--somewhere--had his head tipped back, hair falling back wet with sweat, eyes almost closed, still half watching him, his neck bare and that shirt off his shoulders--fuck--shirt caught on his arms, around the elbows, all that bare expanse of his chest, and shivering tease of belly.

Moving on him, rhythm faster--felt Omi's fingers now, on his shoulder, one back on the couch, fisted in the fabric, slipping grip, and then behind Schuldig's neck, fingers tangled in his wet hair and pulling on that but it didn't matter--(Too busy watching him, and what a sight.)

Mouth open now, white teeth, pink tongue--reddened lips and sounds, those gasps. Schuldig felt his foot slip, hit the floor, didn't matter, pressed up with his hips, slipping lower on the couch or resting more of his weight back against his shoulders, pressing up and Omi was pushing down. Had his hands back on Omi's thighs, thumbs stroking way up high. (Close, close, but not there yet.)

Kept his eyes open, watching it--the blush on Omi's face, the tilt of his head, the line of his neck, sweat dripping down his collarbone--heard his own urgent little sounds, wanting more and asking for it. Panting and whining and one hand up higher, rubbing against Omi now--(oh that _mind_)--the other over his chest, dragging at the shirt, had it caught around his wrist, and then up on Omi's neck, fingers in thick damp hair, thumb against his jaw, palm feeling the frantic pulse--

Rise and fall.

Omi's fingernails scratching down into his skin, trembling, quivering, stuttered gasp, high toned and _there_. Schuldig pressing up, grinding, both hands on his hips, pulling him down--

Leaning up, head down, hair falling all around his face, teeth bare and a curse quivering there on his lips, but Omi's hands on his back and his mind throbbing like that--body warm and, couldn't even breathe--head tipped to the side--and then back, hips pressing up again.

Fell back against the couch, breath coming hard, eyes still closed, hot everywhere and his lips were dry.

* * *

Omi sneezed for the first time while taking a proper shower, and at that point started to think that maybe that dunk in the canal hadn't been so harmless after all. He wondered, at that point, if this vacation might end up extended due to actual illness, or if perhaps he had somehow cursed himself by calling in sick.

He'd told Ken the truth, though; there really wasn't much to be done at school this close to graduation. Might even be a tremendous waste of time to keep going at this point, but...

_What else are you going to do?_

He didn't know, but this dallying with Schuldig ought not to be high on the list. In fact, by all rights it should be stricken from the record entirely. Because ultimately, no matter how long he sat and stared and thought and moped and wondered what the hell he was going to do with himself from here on out, sooner or later Kritiker was going to come knocking on his door. And when they did, he would follow at their heels like the obedient dog he was.

It was becoming more and more obvious that he really had no choice in the matter.

Omi shut off the water and grabbed a towel--same towel as before, retrieved from the random location it had dropped in Schuldig's bedroom. Most of the way dry, even. Rubbed idly through his hair and wrapped it around his waist before stepping out into the washroom, steam escaping through the door and--

Clothes, folded not quite haphazardly and stacked next to the sink. Well--at least he'd put forth an effort towards neatness, that was rather nice. Otherwise they'd be in a pile on the floor.

_He might just appreciate the fact that you're a good lay, don't count your blessings yet._

He dried off and dressed quietly, half-listening to the muffled sounds of Schuldig moving and muttering and generally existing in his living room. Sneezed again while pulling the tank top on; warm clean fabric on his skin. Comfortable. Getting late, should go home, now. Go to bed, dream all of this away.

Schuldig was on the phone when Omi walked into the living room, speaking rapid German into the mouthpiece, leaning against the wall by the kitchen door. A dark, annoyed look about him, glaring in the general non-direction of the cell against his ear. Omi passed him, still rubbing the towel in his hair, jacket slung over one arm. A little more secure now with his own clothes on.

"I'm going home now." Tossed the sentence over his shoulder, flat and casual and almost apathetic.

Schuldig muttered something sharp to whoever was on the other end of the call, one of his teammates most likely. Lucky guy to still have a team. He looked up at the same time Omi sat down on the bench by the front door, lowering the phone like something important was about to be uttered at this moment of parting, but it turned out to just be, "Bye."

Omi made a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff, picking up his shoes. Turning them over and feeling the insides. Still damp. "Nothing better to say now that you're not looking to get laid?"

Schuldig laughed. And he might have been imagining things, but there was something almost approaching sincerity in it. "I thought insincere well wishes would be insulting to your intelligence." Teasing words, subtle pause. "I can offer genuine praise; would it make you feel better if I patted you on the ass and gave you a gold star for most improved participation?"

Omi pushed his heel into the right shoe, looked up for a moment before tying it. A bit of a smile creeping onto his face. "If I take the praise, do I have to accept the rest?"

The phone started to make German-like noises, the person on hold becoming rather irate over being ignored. Schuldig raised it to his ear just long enough to snap the same phrase as before, lowering it so Omi could hear the tinny retort that came over the line in response. "Take what you want." Hint of irritation in Schuldig's voice at the interruption. "I'll keep the rest."

Left shoe tied off, and Omi sat there for a moment staring at them, knotted laces, felt a bit of damp creeping into his socks already. Leaned forward to stand up. "Thanks." There, that's said now, let's walk out the door.

"For taking your clothes, my shirt, the food, or the two rounds of great sex?"

Omi smiled, between his shoes and himself, stood up and turned to the door, shrugging his jacket on and hanging the towel over a coat hook. "For the day off." Now leave, say goodbye, and walk away. Because someday Kritiker will want you back, and that means someday you'll have to kill this guy, and you'd damn well better be okay with that by then.

But the word he heard coming out of his mouth, floating over the shoulder and back into the house just before the door swung shut, was "Later."


	4. On Top

**On Top**

Youji read the newspaper every morning. Cover to cover, chimney of smoke rising from behind it, hand darting out from time to time with an empty coffee mug waving which Ken dutifully refilled. No sugar, because men didn't like sweet things. No milk because it disagreed with him (Aya was the only one in the house who could tolerate milk in any great amount). Youji read each article thoroughly, skimmed the classifieds and read the public notices, the birth and wedding announcements and obituaries. Then he folded the paper into a rectangle and frowned at the crossword for a few hours. Ken would try to help and Aya would finish it later in the afternoon when nobody was watching.

Youji always read the paper. He would have seen the graduation announcement.

Ken wasn't much for newspapers, or press of any kind, for that matter; he had a good memory, though, and a long one. Omi was sure he had mentioned something, at some point back before the Takatori building burned, told Ken the date set for the ceremony. Ken would remember. He would show up late because he couldn't find a clean t-shirt, sit down in the back row and manage looking both awkward and pleased at the same time.

There was no telling with Aya.

The senior class president was saying something long and typical about work, honor, and the importance of being successful; a practiced nuance to his voice that spoke of hours in front of a mirror repeating these words over and over until they lost all meaning. Omi fidgeted in his seat, dying to turn around and look back at the scatter of people watching, middle-aged mothers radioactive with pride and salarymen preparing their own carefully practiced speeches for their sons on being good men and husbands and fathers and climbing the corporate ladder. Ordinary people with their ordinary successes, confident that their brood would continue on to college or into the workforce and bring honor to their family name.

For Tsukiyono Omi, the document he was about to receive meant something totally different: an end to the practiced normalcy of his public life. He could have gone to college, could have continued on with the mask and the pleasantries and playing the role of the good, kind boy that everyone liked. But the fact was that school cut into his professional life; homework and extracurriculars on top of the hours in the classroom spent valuable time. Planning. Lengthy hacks. Late missions. Sleep. He needed that time, now, because soon Kritiker was going to call him back.

Any day now.

When they did, Tsukiyono Omi would become the brilliant student who wasted his many talents by choosing to work in a flower shop for the rest of his days. As he had no family to begrudge this decision, he figured sooner or later everyone else would disperse and forget about his career choices.

His fingers folded and bunched the hem of his jacket into fan-like shapes through the speech, and the one after it (school principal), and the one after that (deputy mayor). His heels rubbed and scraped against the chair legs all throughout the agonizingly slow reading of names, students filing and shuffling forward through the taut and fragile non-silence, orchestra keeping up a tempo of background noise that reached his ears as static. He was jiggling one knee, he was shuffling with the rest, then there was cool leather in his hands and somehow it was all over--everything, and he was staring down the hallway with laughing faces streaming by on either side of him, someone thumping him on the back and pulling him along, Omi smiling automatically and saying something conformative.

Everything--and sitting in homeroom for the last time, fingers twisting around the diploma in his hands and listening to (oh please god tell me this is the last speech I have to sit through), he realized he'd forgotten. Standing on the stage with the principal and the deputy mayor all official and white-gloved shaking his hand, with the spread of the auditorium before him, he'd forgotten to look--way in the back amongst the curtains and the stragglers and the slightly-estranged family members who snuck in to watch.

It was probably better to have forgotten than to look and see nothing.

* * *

The walk home seemed longer than usual, sun angling bright through strategically-placed trees without warming anything. The world was too still and muffled at this time of the afternoon--he was used to walking home later, with the rush of students around him, bicycles passing and early commuters filling the streets.

Hollow clang of the stairs under his feet, neat row of doors and he paused, just like always, keys in his hand and held a breath for a moment before pushing his door open, closing it firmly behind him before looking down in the mail slot. One day--one day he would look down and there it would be, thick manila stamped red. Orders. Something to fucking Ido/I.

He could see it in his mind's eye, word for word, stiff format on limp printer paper--_reactivating Weiss, all accounted for and present at 1400 hours to accept your target assignment_--could smell the ink, feel it crinkle in his fingers.

Omi licked his lips and opened his eyes, because one day imagining it would make it real--and there, in the bottom of the box, was a plain, blank, off-white envelope.

He frowned; that couldn't be it.

The envelope was parchment, unsealed, the card inside was as well, artfully torn on the edges. Classy, brown-black calligraphy proclaiming _To the Graduate: Congratulations_. The sort of simple, elegant card that had been left in his mail slot for years now (always on the 28th, until you roll you eyes and tell him it's a leap year).

It was the sort of card that was blank inside, and it fell open with the ease of having sat that way for far too long; a few pen scratches followed by a simple and inexplicably awkward _Love, Ken_.

Ken might have sat at a table for hours, pen poised and almost forming that first, tentative hiragana, the beginnings of "Hi, how are you" or "We're really proud of you; really" or "Youji sends his regards" or a long and rambling discourse on what he'd been doing and contemplating peppered with random, unanswered questions, the kana squishing further and further as he ran out of room and finally finished on the back, apologizing profusely for doing so. Ultimately he gave up and signed his name with the kind of improper affection only Ken could get away with.

Omi set the card, half-open to prop itself up, on the windowsill, facing in, and watched it for a few minutes as though judging if it looked appropriate there or if it would catch a breeze and fall.

The box below his mail slot was empty again.

Omi turned his back finally, shrugging off his backpack and dumping its contents out on the unrolled futon taking over the majority of the apartment's floor space. Shook it until the last few pens tumbled out with a clatter on the textbooks, then grabbed some clothes and started packing.

He'd been eighteen for two weeks and a high school graduate for two hours, and already he couldn't stand being in his own space.

* * *

He shouldn't have been moving in daylight, not to this particular place. He rationalized it well, the unlikeliness that anyone was tailing him, that no one on the street knew or cared who he was or who was on the other side of this door, cold wood against his knuckles as he knocked. He tried to feel secure in that but didn't entirely, but did feel certain that once this door closed behind his back, he would no longer feel concerned about whether or not Kritiker was watching.

The door flew open after a moment, Schuldig leaning lazily against the frame, hair in wet hanks around his shoulders and a toothbrush in one hand. He tossed a towel over his shoulder and smirked, looking Omi over like he was an intriguing and delicious-looking oddity. There was arrogance in that smirk, like Omi was frowning at a puzzle that Schuldig already knew the answer to.

"Hi." Omi said, and it sounded stupid; better than nothing, though. "Can I come in?"

Schuldig seemed to be expecting something like that; he stepped back and stuck the toothbrush in his mouth, turning away and leaving the door hanging open. Walking away. "Close the door behind you." And that was it.

Omi slipped inside and closed the door silently, toed off his shoes and dropped his backpack on the bench before moving into the living room. Still familiar but not, somehow, like everything had been shuffled a few inches from where he remembered. It was the mess, though, that threw him--it looked like Schuldig hadn't taken a single moment to clean since Omi left back in February.

Schuldig had disappeared into the bathroom and the distinct sound of gargling was emanating from the partially open door. Omi took a seat on the couch, knowing there were probably drinks in the fridge but this time, as he was clothed and had no reason to kick propriety to the curb in someone else's home, he would wait until he had permission.

The faucet turned off and Omi closed his eyes, arm propping his head up and waiting, the stray thought that Schuldig looked rather good with his hair wet flitting across his consciousness.

He opened his eyes at the sound of footfalls, Schuldig pausing en route to the kitchen. "So, what _exactly_ are you here for?"

_He did not just ask that. He_ didn't. A telepath asking the obvious as though it wasn't already on Omi's mind and wasn't exactly what happened whenever the two of them ended up in the same general vicinity. On two occasions, at least, though admittedly before that there was no way in hell. "You know," Omi responded after what he knew was an extended moment of bemused staring, "they say there's no such thing as a stupid question, but... I think that was it."

Schuldig raised an eyebrow, a mocking, cockeyed expression but there was something deeper there, something irritated at Omi's retort. "I asked a stupid question, you avoided giving an answer. So, unless you've got a reason to be here that's going to interest me, I was getting ready to go out."

"Oh," Omi murmured, all the confidence from his previous statement draining away. Probably wasn't such a great idea coming here, after all. Schuldig didn't seem to care much what he said after that and walked into the kitchen. Omi jumped up and followed, not quite ready to give up yet, standing in the doorway and watching Schuldig rummage through the fridge. "Where are you going? If you can tell me."

Schuldig snorted, and it did actually sound amused, half a laugh as he straightened with a bottle of Ramune in his hand. "I was going out to get laid, thus my interest in your reason for being here." Looking at Omi again, eyes straying from his face momentarily.

It felt hot, for a moment, or like something had tingled up his spine. "Well. I guess you don't have to go out, then."

"Guess not."

A small eternity passed. Schuldig set his drink down on the counter but otherwise didn't move, refrigerator door swinging closed behind him. Omi's mouth felt dry and he attributed it to the long walk from the metro station without thinking overlong on the phenomenon. He shifted away from the doorframe a bit, certain but uncertain, appraising Schuldig with what he knew was probably a look completely unlike how one ought to look at someone to whom one was offering sex. Critical and discerning; if he was lucky it looked attractive on him.

_He's waiting--standing there waiting to see what you'll do. He's not going to make the first move, this time._

Omi hesitated for all of two seconds, more of an ingrained reaction than a lack of assurance--_nothing you haven't done before, with him, not like he's going to change his mind when he's got you right here_--and practically lunged forward, hands grappling with Schuldig's shoulders to pull him down within reach, nothing gentle about it either. And his mouth--

Wet hair clinging to his arms and Schuldig's hands on his waist, nudging just so. Some kind of vocal protest vibrated against his tongue, probably at the uncomfortable angle, and Omi felt the fridge against his back, cold and rumbling through his shirt. His elbow jammed against the handle but he didn't give more than half a whimper, misinterpreted, and then Schuldig pressed hard against him and it was _warm_--

Omi wriggled, missed where his hands had ended up and every move rubbed--hands in Schuldig's hair now, sticky, mouth pressing harder and _fuck_--felt good. His fingers curled, long shiver passing through and Schuldig made another, hungrier sound.

Know where this is going--knew _that _long before he even knocked on the door.

* * *

Damn boy was damn short. (Stop complaining when he's there and eager; and made the first move.) Yes, Schuldig appreciated that; hadn't really expected it even if Omi thought he was here for sex. Still, kissing him was easier when he didn't have to stoop down quite so far. (You never did learn to accept good things.) No, he accepted it, warm body against his, hands in his hair, and the feel of Omi's mind nice and eager.

Schuldig bent down a little, hand curling under Omi's thigh and his other arm wriggling its way behind his back. Felt Omi arching off the fridge; shoulders back against it and hips moving forward, pressing against his. Boy already knew what he was going to do. (Good, brains _and_ a good lay.) Schuldig straightened, lifting Omi up, still pressed against the fridge—(makes it easier to hold him up, doesn't it?)—his legs hooking around Schuldig's hips.

(How exactly you gonna do it this time, pet him, coax him, rub him—nice and slow and—) No. That sort of shit required patience and acting like a nice little beaten dog for the arrogant fucks had sapped whatever patience he would otherwise have possessed. Nothing slow and easy about it, pressed his hand against Omi's back, worked it under the hem of his T-shirt, and up, around his back, hand around his shoulder and pulled him off the fridge.

(Time to put the table to use?)

He could feel Omi's thighs around his waist, tightening, and the pull as that arm around his shoulder flexed and held onto him more tightly. (That's a lack of faith right there.) Lull in the kissing, some kind of concern in Omi's mind that he was going to get dropped somewhere unpleasant. (Serious lack of faith; one that seems justified in light of the fact you cannot remember where the hell the table is, exactly.) No, he remembered where it was. Eleven short steps, like shuffling, and Omi broke the kiss, head turning to look where they were going; Schuldig's free hand reaching out instinctively, felt the edge of the table and smiled. Stumbled the last step and lifted Omi just a bit higher so he slid onto the table. Heard the sound of papers being pushed out of the way, a few of them hitting the floor, and he leaned forward, pressing close against Omi and swept the papers off the table—dust flying in the air at the movement.

Omi's hands on his arms, sliding up and petting his shoulders, one dipping forward to his collarbone as the other hand went around his back and pulled the towel. Schuldig felt it sliding off, dragging over his skin and then heard it when it hit the floor with a wet smack. (Enough housekeeping—)

Kissing again, Omi's fingers stroking his skin wherever he could reach. Warm and short pets and his legs still wrapped around him, hips moving just a little. Schuldig curled his hands around the hem of Omi's shirt; fists tightening down and pulled it up, made it to his chest. (Gotta stop kissing him to get the shirt off.) Liked the kissing, liked the feel of Omi's mouth, eager and hungry kisses, little noises and— He tugged on the shirt, pulling it tight across Omi's back, and up more, under his arms now, lingered there; enjoying the taste and the feel of the kiss. Tongue against his and warm and—(More to be had with less clothes on.)

True.

Little thoughts in Omi's head: (_Mmm, that's nice… Ohhh, yes, more of that—_) Schuldig yanked the shirt up, pulling back, away from Omi's mouth and fingers and balled the shirt up when it came free and tossed it over his shoulder. (_What? Oh, shirt off now, in a hurry are we?_) Spent a minute there, looking at Omi: blue eyes open just a little, looking at him, eyebrows just starting to pull down, lips parted and wet.

(Oh, yes, he's gorgeous and wonderful and perfect and—if you stop looking at him there's a very strong chance you can fuck him.)

Schuldig moved forward again, palms against Omi's shoulders, fingers curving around and then down to his arms, and kissed him again. Tightened his grip and pulled Omi forward more, felt his head tip back, changed the angle of the kiss—(Good, like that)—fingernails were digging into his shoulders and Omi pressing back up into the kiss. Murmured little mmm sound, felt it in the kiss; echoed it back in the rocking of his own hips. (Really, might want to move it along.) Felt fingers working their way into his hair again and the press of Omi's leg as he curled it around him again.

And in his head: (_Fast might be good, this time._)

Nice to know that everyone agreed. Schuldig pulled out of the kiss, ran his tongue across his lips, hands off Omi's arms and moving down, grabbing the button of his pants. Half-murmured, "Glad you think so." The button was open and shoved the zipper down, green waistband of Omi's boxers visible now. (You'd think he'd have better manners and not wear underpants when he intended to—) Whatever, complaining took time, took the pants by the belt loops and pulled them down; Omi dropping his hands away, down to the table, flex of muscle as he lifted himself up enough to let the pants slide off. (Ever the helpful one.) Heavy sound when the pants hit the floor, shuriken he had hidden in there making their presence known. (He wears fucking boxers and brings weapons, now that is the way to turn a guy on.)

Schuldig moved back, hands on Omi's thighs, thumbs rubbing under the hem of his boxers; watched Omi as he pulled at the button on his pants. Thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, open mouth and warm breath—watched his tongue. (Doesn't take this long to get a button undone.) He moved his hand up, fingers under the hem, the fabric against the back of his hand, and wrist—warm and soft skin under his fingers as he pulled Omi forward on the table, all but dangling off the edge now, something warm to rub against.

Button undone and the sound of the zipper, then Omi looking back up at him, pink tongue across his lips and something in his expression that could have been a smile—kissing again. Urgent and noisy. Schuldig's pants starting to slip, Omi's hand around his back and the other down between—(the lube, you actually have some this time, left pocket, remember?)— He had to pull his hand back out of Omi's boxers and shoved it down into the pocket, curled his hand around the tube and pulled it out, pants now noticeably lower than before. Wash of cool air and the heat of Omi's fingers—palm, hand wrapping around him, short stroke. Nipped at Omi's mouth, short little groan for the feeling (go ahead, admit that you've haven't been laid in all this time, he won't think less of you.)

Pressed his forehead against Omi's mess of hair caught between them and lifted the lube up, caught the edge of the tube between his teeth. Time for the boxers to go. Hands around his back, fingers under the waist band of the damn things and tugged them down. Omi shifted his weight to help, the motion changing the stroke of his hand and Schuldig sucked a breath in between his teeth. Those damn boxers down to Omi's thighs now, pulled them as far as they would go—(Gonna have to move to get them off.) They could wait just for a second or two.

Change in Omi's mind, annoyance, impatience—(_Get much more distracted and I'll be doing this myself._)—as he grabbed the tube of lube that had been bumping against his face and pulled it out from between Schuldig's teeth.

(Bitch.)

Omi, pushing the boxers down with his empty hand and pulling his leg up to get it free, that little crease back between his eyes, and Schuldig watched him as he did it. Just waiting, watched the boxers as they slipped free of Omi's foot and the only thing still holding them on was the bend of his other knee. Pressed his hand under Omi's thigh and pushed it up, felt Omi tense and his balance as it shifted back, hips coming forward ever so slightly more, one elbow hitting the table to keep himself from falling backward. Schuldig could see him, through his bangs, watched him blink and didn't care; didn't care about the thought in his head trying to figure out how much of this was annoyance.

(_—Thought you wanted this hard and fast—_)

Then a hand wrapping around Schuldig's arm and tugging on him, trying to pull him down. "Come on," Omi's voice, like a murmur. Didn't quite know what it was supposed to sound like.

Gave a little, let the hand pull him forward just enough, nipping at Omi's mouth, and down, his jaw. (Move along, the critic is impatient.) Moved his hand up, out from under his knee, grabbed Omi's hand where it was curled around his arm, and pushed it up, over his head and down against the table. Hard tension of muscles as Omi laid back against the table, stomach flexed and eyes narrow, looking at him. Schuldig looked back, hips pressed to his, grinding against him, bit of a smirk across his face as he curled his right hand around Omi's, thumb pressing against the lid of the lube he was holding. The sound of the top popping open loud even over the sound of their breath. Held his hand out and Omi squeezed it, awkward tilt to his wrist (and you would care, honestly, just not now.)

Schuldig thought he saw Omi smirk—couldn't tell, didn't stop to look at his face long enough to be sure. Hand down between them, curling his own fingers around and bit back shiver at the coolness of the lube. (Should have been warm, had it in his damn pocket for the past ten minutes—) Short stroke, and then rubbed his thumb against Omi—slick and warm now (oh, of course, warm for _him_.) Didn't matter, shook his head, trying to get the hair back over his shoulders—useless thing, it fell around his face anyway, clinging to his neck and his cheeks. Looked up at Omi again, through the fringe of his bangs, saw him watching, eyes just barely open.

Pressed against him, Schuldig's fingers around his thigh now and fingernails digging into skin. Hips moving forward, Omi's little thought (_Well fina—_), thrusting in—watched his face, watched Omi as his mouth opened, short noise; white teeth clenched and the muscles in his arm pulling taut under Schuldig's palm. (_Oh fuck, yes_.) Could have counted the seconds, like his pulse, as the tension eased and panted a sigh. Felt fingers against his side, moving around, pulling at him—grabbed Omi's wrist and pinned it down just the same as the other, leaning over him now, table making some kind of protesting sound as he rocked his hips.

Could hear the rest of the papers flutter—(fuck the papers; _fuck_ the boy.)

Yes; that. Schuldig moving, pulling back—teeth bared and hair sticking to his lips—and forward again. Movement short and fast. Omi's stuttered sigh and his legs around him. Liked his face, liked his mind, liked the feel of him there, under him, around him— Another move, the table objecting, Omi's knees digging into his side—(didn't matter, not one little bit)—and his head falling back, length of his neck exposed, another of his little gasping sighs. Schuldig flexed the grip he had on Omi's wrists, tightening down. Felt his hair swaying, long as it was, dragging against Omi's belly, chest in time with the movements of his hips. Pressing in, again and again— Harsh tone of his own breath, something like a curse hissed out between his teeth.

Table moved, back, hit the wall—Omi startled jerk at that, some half-thought there, (_glad he_—) lost the rest and it didn't matter. Moving faster, table making loud sounds against the wall—Omi's knee slipping on the sweat and changed the tilt of his hips. Schuldig grabbed his thigh, pulled it back up. Omi's back arching, face turned to the right, free hand in his own hair and then up, over his head so his palm pressed against the wall, using the leverage to push back against the thrusts.

Noises, sound of their hips meeting and gasping, murmured little pants and moans.

"Fuck," all but spat the word. Shivering and some instinctive demand to crawl onto the table—couldn't happen, didn't stop the urge, Schuldig let go of Omi's other wrist, wrapped both of his hands around those slim hips and pulled him back against the thrusts. Felt his eyes when they closed, felt Omi's mind tipping out, almost there, the sharp pinch of fingernails when Omi grabbed his arm.

Shuddering and it was hard to tell, could have been either of them, or both—felt it and it didn't matter as he pushed forward again, head tipping back, too loud sound and it didn't matter how ridiculous it would have sounded otherwise because—fuck, yes.

Seconds of the feeling, white and hot; tipped his head back down, watched Omi, felt him moving still, the flex of his arm, his throat as he swallowed and whined something, hand falling down off Schuldig's arm and moving down.

(Selfish beast; what's that you're always telling Crawford about bad manners and coming first?)

The legs around his hips tightening and pulling, Omi rubbing back against him as his hand curled around himself.

(You are _not_ going to leave him like that—) Could. (Not if you want another go later.) True.

Schuldig grabbed Omi's hand, hard to pull it away, nasty little protest of thoughts in his head. Would have been funny but laughing would be completely misunderstood. Pulled back—another protest and a fresh snarl of thoughts. Tipped his head down, free hand sliding down Omi's thigh slick with sweat and trembling. Licked his lips and took Omi in. (Look, suddenly he likes you again.) Pressed two fingers back in, rubbing Omi inside in time with the movement of his head.

Omi's free hand in his hair, fingers tangled in the wet mass of it and tightening into a fist. The sharp pants and moans loud in the air as he writhed, pressing up against Schuldig's mouth and back against the fingers. Trying to pull his other hand free and then—back arching, hips jerking up and his mind—

Schuldig pulled back—or tried, that hand in his hair wasn't quite ready to give up its grip yet. Stayed there, elbows against the table now, kind of felt stupid with his chin against Omi's ribs now and legs half-bare. (It's called afterglow, you should enjoy it.) Enjoy, yes, enjoyed the feeling of cooling sweat and bare legs, and that hand in his hair. Hook his fingers around the hair sticking to his face and pulled it away.

(What the hell are you going to say now? Sorry? Get out? If you tell anyone I came first—especially Crawford, not that he would ever ask or want to know—I'll mind fuck you into a drooling idiot?)

Omi moved first, hand down out of his hair, elbows back on the table as he pushed himself up a little, tipping his head down to nip at the corner of Schuldig's mouth. "Thanks."

(Yes, thanks for the blow job, you still came first.) Omi's mind, in fact, was conspicuously blank of any thoughts related to matter. Tactful and polite, that. Schuldig smirked, pushed himself up more, still leaning over Omi. "My original plan for this evening involved getting food before sex," he said.

"Oh," Omi said, smile playing at his lips. "Well," pushing himself up so he was sitting, and Schuldig moved back, giving him space so he could get down off the table. "That explains things nicely." Wry smile on his face, watching him as he said it and then looking down, grabbing the waistband of the green boxers that had been stuck tangled around his ankle all this time, and pushed his other leg into them.

(Might want to pull yours up too.) Yeah, Schuldig tugged his pants back up, pulled the zipper up and left the button undone. "It's a theory; if your ego needs a boost you can always chalk it up to your prowess." (Yes, let's just keep talking about it.) "More to the point I was aiming for a polite way to suggest you order food; I'm going to go rinse out my mouth." Smirk across his face. "Unless you suddenly have to run away."

Omi looking back at him—at his mouth. (Nope, running away is not in his plans.) "What do you want? Ramen, Chinese, pizza?" The tip of his tongue running along the edge of his mouth just briefly and then he was looking down, at the floor. Omi stepped around Schuldig to get to his pants and shook them.

Schuldig watched him for a minute, half bent over, stepping into the pants, watched the muscles in his legs and back. Nice pink mark going diagonal across his lower back, the edge of it rising above his boxers. (And as nice as he looks, the taste just doesn't compare.) Never did; but he didn't have mouthwash in the kitchen. Ran his hands through his hair again, all of it falling in his damn face. Needed a hair tie for that while he was at it. He was half out the door: "Whatever will get here the fastest."

* * *

Morning—and all the same thoughts that it brought. The woman in the apartment above his was dreaming—fog, fish and house slippers, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean—Mr. Kobayashi had gotten up thirty minutes late again and was obsessing over what hair he had left and how he must be in such bad standing at his job. Someone walking on the stairs, vague thoughts about nothing significant, just enough noise in those thoughts to make a whispering sound—Schuldig hated that.

He opened his eyes. (Fucking normal people.) Spent a moment just looking at his hand, loosened his fist and pressed his hand down against the bed. He was still tired and not at all interested in being awake; too bad that because fucking Kobayashi down the hall was better than an alarm clock—it made him wonder how much money it would take to get Nagi to suffocate the bastard. (Tried to figure out if there were anything he could trade, mind-fuck for silent death?)

Schuldig pushed himself up to his elbows, shook his head and spit the hair out of his mouth. Didn't work, it never did, he pulled the last few strands of hair away from his mouth and pushed the whole mess of it over his shoulder. Lost that hair-tie he had the night before, probably on the couch and he'd find it the next time he had to go searching for the damn lube.

(Speaking of—)

Omi was still sleeping, not very deeply but his mind was all soupy gray nothing. Schuldig looked over at him--wrapped up in the one blanket he had managed to keep to himself--and snorted. (Smart kid, already knows you're a blanket hog.) Some things were obvious enough that everyone knew them. (Yes, convince yourself that he's just a common little moron.)

Schuldig moved, rolling onto his back and kicking the blanket down, sudden wash of cool air that made his skin prickle. Omi reacting to the movement, hands tightening around the blanket as his legs pulled up and he muttered something in his sleep. (Kid's got survival instincts.) If he did, he might need to get them rechecked; whatever this thing was it couldn't have seemed like a great idea. Showing up here—while being convenient and sparing Schuldig a trip to whatever nightclub seemed most likely to produce a fuckbuddy—seemed (does it matter what it was?) out of character.

His neck itched, Schuldig scratched at it and hissed when he ran his fingers over a sore spot. Rubbed at it while he frowned at the ceiling. Little bastard left some kind of mark there—Schuldig pushed himself up, standing on the bed and two steps to the end, down off and grabbed his pants off the floor as he walked out of the room. Omi behind him rousing into something like consciousness and not at all inclined to move, grumpy thought about whoever it was making the bed jiggle when he was sleeping.

Schuldig stepped into his pants in the hallway, shivering in the cold. Paused when he got his pants up to his hips, the long strings on the sweatpants hanging loosely. There were teeth marks on his stomach. He pressed a finger against one, swiped his thumb across it (what, expecting it to still be wet? Quite a while ago...) The bathroom door was already open and he looked up, caught his reflection in the mirror and saw that nice red mark on his collarbone even from the hall.

(Hungry little bastard, isn't he?) Apparently the boy could not survive on ramen alone. (That or he remembers that little comment you made about audience participation.) Schuldig frowned at the mirror--the three marks on this stomach weren't even worth wasting time worry about. But that one up on his collarbone--that one might show. (What, afraid you'll have to gloat about having a sex life again?) As fucking pointlessly polite as the Japanese were, there had to be some kind of unspoken understanding that you didn't leave hickies where they'd show. (Wear a higher collar.)

And the boy was just in the other room, wrapped up in his cocoon, hanging onto his sleep and completely unrepentant. (Yes, because he should be anxious to apologize to you for leaving marks--You. The man that shot him.) Schuldig turned, out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom, across the room to the bed and stepped back up onto it--balance wavering just a bit, enough to make the bed shake again and Omi frown in his sleep. Watched him shift and roll onto his back, some half-thought about maybe he should get up now--and Schuldig moved up, one foot on either side of Omi now and dropped down to his knees, leaning forward to stare at Omi as he opened his eyes.

Felt the instant reaction in Omi's mind like an echo to his actions--hand on Schuldig's throat, one on his hand, and Omi pushing him down into the bed--then the thoughts, why and who and how. (And aren't you lucky he was naked and there's nothing sharp and pointy within grabbing distance?)

Schuldig raised an eyebrow, cocked his head to one side and rested his heels against the bed so his knees were raised on either side of Omi. "You bit me." Slow kind of smile on his face as he said it.

Omi said nothing, looked at him for a moment and let the full weight of the unspoken 'duh' settle before he pulled his hand off Schuldig's neck and leaned back. (This of course means that you--oh Mastermind--are no threat at all.) He pushed the hair out of his eyes and shifted a bit, tugging at the sheet he had gotten wrapped too tightly around him.

(What exactly were you attempting to prove?) Schuldig was still for a moment, watching Omi struggle with the sheet, counted the seconds by tapping his finger against his thigh and then pushed himself up so he was sitting, all but bumping noses with Omi when he did. "So, were you hungry or just trying to score points for enthusiastic participation?"

Omi stared momentarily, tongue tracing the edge of his teeth. "You don't like it?" Paused, leaned down to closer inspect his handiwork, eyes traveling over Schuldig slowly. "And you woke me up to bitch at me about it? Maybe I should give you another one."

(Interesting thought there.) Because getting laid three times in less than five hours is totally not enough. Schuldig tipped his head back and looked at Omi, felt his hair sliding off his face, falling to the sides and smirked back at him. "Maybe I should give you one." Still holding himself up on one arm, lifted his other hand up to wrap around Omi's shoulder, his thumb running across the raised edge of his collarbone. "Right here," he added.

"You think?" Omi tipped his head to the left as he said it, leaning in against Schuldig's hand, pushing him back so he fell back on his elbow. Warm breath against his mouth and one of Omi's hands on his arm, just below the shoulder, sliding down toward his elbow as those lips brushed his. Too close, Schuldig could see Omi's eyebrows and his half-closed eyes. Felt lips against his softly, barely brushing his, dampness of Omi's tongue as he wet his lips-- Brief kiss, teasing little thing, and then Omi pulled back, up on his knees and finally managed to get the sheet loose enough to move.

Schuldig watched him as Omi leaned back and yanked the sheet off, left it on the bed as he scooted to the edge. "I'm gonna take a shower," said over his shoulder. (Are you really going to let him get away?) No; Schuldig moved, one arm around Omi, under his arm and across his ribs, and then pulled him back. Instant resistance against the move, Omi's mind working around the impulse to break free and relaxing into the motion. The bed squeaked when they fell back, Omi hit the bed next to Schuldig's shoulder, looking over at him with all the lazy curiosity in the world. (You could be anyone—anyone but who you are.) Strange that look on Omi's face, strange the way Schuldig moved, pushed himself up and grinning back down at the look. Had his hand on Omi's chest, palm sliding down over his ribs, felt goosebumps under his touch—from the coolness of the room of course—moved one leg between Omi's, and curled his fingers around his waist, thumb dragging across his belly.

Quiet little space of breath there, Omi still hadn't quite figured out what was happening. Schuldig smirked at him. "Or maybe," he said, tipping his head to one side, leaning down close, his bangs falling against Omi's forehead, across his eyebrows—made the boy blink up at him. Then he moved, same smirk on his face. (Now he gets nervous.) "Here." The word like a laugh, Schuldig ducked his head down, teeth against Omi's shoulder and biting down.

Funny little sound, like a half-strangled squeak as Omi moved under him, trying to pull his shoulder away, one hand up on Schuldig's arm and the other against his ribs, belly dipping down under Schuldig's thumb. (Squirming I believe they call it.) Would have smiled but it wouldn't have made a difference, Omi couldn't see his face, now with all his hair falling down like it was—pressed his teeth against the skin harder and sucked on it. Another attempt to pull away and then Omi pushing his shoulder up against Schuldig's mouth, trying to get him off that way—(sorry, not going to work.)

Restless movement, Omi shifting. The fingers on Schuldig's ribs running light across his skin and he shivered at it. Omi grinning (felt it in his mind, strange feeling all things considered), wiggling to one side enough to get his other arm under Schuldig's and then fingers against his ribs, light and ticklish little touches, moving up and down his sides, looking for just the right place and there--

Fuck. (There goes your last deep dark secret.)

--Clumsy; the instant reaction. Schuldig bit down harder and then moved back, shoving himself up away from Omi's hands and choking on the laugh, trying to grab Omi's damn hands but they pulled away from his and there was a laugh. Omi's laugh, the grin on his face. (Little bastard.) Managed to get one hand on Omi's wrist and pulled his fingers away, pushed that hand down against the bed--laughing now, tasted his own hair in his mouth and still trying to grab that other damn hand. Wriggling under him--distracting that--almost caught Omi's hand but it moved, down lower on his ribs, just below and sliding in toward his belly. (Oh yes, he'll love the sounds you make there. How long has it been exactly?)

Schuldig got his hand, and pushed it down, over Omi's head--breathing heavy and Omi just giving him the most innocent look in the world, like he had done precisely nothing. (Yeah, right. Sure.) Something self-satisfied about the way his head was tipped back and the part of his lips, had one of his legs pulled up and Schuldig could feel it brushing against his hip. (Smug little bastard, isn't he? Think of all the people he'd tell if he could.) Felt the frown between his eyebrows and knew he was just staring at Omi—(after fifteen seconds most people tend to stop liking that)—and shivered again, like an aftershock.

(You could get rid of him. Once and for all. Send him out that door right now and he'd never come back. You could do that and it wouldn't even bother you tomorrow.)

Movement under his palms, Omi leaning up, awkward balance to it, the muscles of his stomach contracting and Schuldig could feel that as close as they were. (--Could find a new boy to fuck.) Warm breath against his lips, blue eyes looking back at him and the most fleeting touch of lips against his. (Could.) Tipped his head, his own hair falling into his eyes, against his cheeks and the long strands of it working its way closer to his mouth.

(Could.)

Omi's quiet sound, low in his throat; his eyes were half closed now, lips parting just slightly and—

Schuldig kissed him, one hand sliding up Omi's wrist to press their palms together, the other moving, fingers curling around Omi's neck, thumb on his cheek and fingers in his hair. Valiant quiver as Omi tried to stay up, some attempt to get his elbow under him made useless as Schuldig pushed down against him and the quiet sound as they fell back against the bed. Fingers stroking against Schuldig's chest, slow movement, warm skin, working their way up to his shoulder as Omi stretched under him, his knee pressing harder against Schuldig's hip.

Rubbing together now, bellies thighs and hips, not quite right, needed to shift a little. Had to let go of Omi's hand, his weight balanced to the right, and reaching down, caught Omi's thigh down low by the knee, and pulled it up--gasp of breath as the kiss broke. Omi moving and his other hand on Schuldig's arm, tight grip, licking his lips again. Patient for all the time it took Schuldig to get settled against him, and then pulling him back down to kiss again. Better rub, smooth thighs against his hips, Omi pressing back up against him--eager sound low in his throat at it, Schuldig murmuring something back.

The phone ringing.

Dampness of sweat between their bodies, wiggled one of his hands under Omi, up and curled around his shoulder, pulling just a little. Perfect there--Omi's fingernails digging into his arm just hard enough to feel it, one of his legs curling around his hips and the tilt of his head--absolutely perfect.

(Except for the phone ringing.) If the condescending bastard really wanted the phone answered he would have used the other number. (Right.)

But Omi, under him, pulling away from the kiss, breathing heavy and his fingers petting his skin softly as he cast a glance over toward the sound of the phone. "Um... You gonna get that?"

(Fuck--) "--No." A short shake of his head to add emphasis.

Omi considering this as the phone rang again, caught between the feeling that Schuldig probably ought to answer the phone (Kritiker trained him well, didn't they?) and shrugging it off. He tapped one of his fingers against Schuldig's shoulder, some kind of nervous gesture, counting the seconds, waiting to see if the phone was going to ring, just silence and then: "Ok."

Schuldig smiled, repeated the word in a breath. Felt fingers back in his hair, pulling it away from his face and Omi's tongue against his, shiver between the two of them. Heat everywhere their skin touched, sweat against the back of his neck and slipping down his spine as his hair started to stick down.

The phone rang--different tone, delightfully cheerful that fucking ring tone. The smug-ass bastard had picked the fucking thing out himself. Some kind of irony that only the fucking American asshole could really appreciate, doubtlessly.

He pulled away from Omi, heard the soft tone of his words. "Ummm... Now are you gonna get it?"

Spat a curse word--in German--as he shoved himself up to his knees, climbing over Omi to get to the edge of the bed and all but fell out of the damn thing. Managed to get his feet under him and grabbed the phone from where it had fallen to the floor the night before. The little caller ID screen turned blue, the phone vibrated as it played out that stupid fucking tone. Schuldig stood up, flipped the phone open and all but shouted into it.

"What?" (Because nothing could be more important than what you were doing, right? Nothing at all.)

Could all but hear Crawford's smirking little smile and the smugness of his raised eyebrow. Didn't have to be near him to know what he was thinking (of course not, not after all this time). "What did I interrupt?"

(Smug fucking bitch.) "You damn well what you fucking interrupted, what do you want?" Looked back over his shoulder, saw Omi sitting up now, watching him, trying to figure out what he was saying. Knew it was German, or figured it was, sounded like it.

Crawford's sigh. "You do realize that if you had answered the phone the first time I called this whole process would have taken far less time. Its very possible you would have been returning to your previous activities already--if you had answered the phone the first time."

Frown on Omi's face, eyebrows drawn down, some kind of realization dawning in his brain--strange how easy he had forgotten it the night before and all this morning until this moment, listening to Schuldig shout in German. He was at his enemy's, sitting in his enemy's bed, listening to his enemy shout--(Oh, they trained him damn well.)

"Crawford. What?" Turned his back to Omi again, didn't have to watch him to know the progression of those thoughts. Security breach and Kritiker would eventually want him back and he shouldn't have come in the first place. (Well, too fucking bad because you did.)

"Wear a high collar." The words were almost a let down. Spoken so plainly--in English--and it seemed so ridiculous. All the things that the words should have implied were absent, it was just syllables and wasted minutes and Crawford's fucking smug voice. (I know you let him bite you.)

"Why the fuck do you care?"

Omi on his feet behind him, looking for his clothes.

"I don't, Schuldig. Except that you will care very much if you show up in your usual clothes and Pelagatti--" (There are those implications you said weren't there. How do you like them now?) There was give in Crawford's voice, just enough that any other man would have thought there was room for sympathy. (No, nothing like that, it was carefully planned. You have to care to sympathize.)

"Fine." Schuldig lowered the phone, snapping it shut and tossed it back on the bed. Ran his fingers through his hair to get it off his face, felt it sticking to his fingers and the backs of his hands. He pushed it back and felt it falling forward again before he even moved his hands out.

Omi was picking his socks up off the floor, had one in his hand and was looking for the other one under the fallen sheet. Already had his shirt on, long sleeves and his mind moving around, no order to it--(thoughts made sense in the head they belonged in, right? That's the way it works.) Some repeating image of a card on a windowsill and the definite knowledge that Omi was not supposed to be there anymore. Stray thought about where his pants ended up.

(Second chance to make him go and never come back. Kind of deserves it now.) Fucking Pelagatti-- (Go on. Do it.)

The second sock was under the bed, Omi had to get down on his knees to get to it, and didn't like that--turning his back on Schuldig--strange that. (Do it now.) And it would be so easy now, with Omi uneasy. He didn't understand the words but he knew the tone and maybe it wasn't such a great idea to be here in the first place--

Schuldig sighed, waited for Omi to stand up again and looked at him. "You," he said, tone even and almost neutral. "Have affected my wardrobe." Smirk there at the end, maybe more like a grin. More like that thing it had been before the phone rang.

Omi stood there, the sock dangling from his hand, "I--" A full stop there, his thoughts suddenly blank and then starting again, trying to figure out what it was exactly that Schuldig had just said and what it was supposed to mean. "--What?"

"You" he repeated, "and your teeth have affected my wardrobe."

Sound almost like a hiccup--stilted laugh, cut off before it could even make noise in the air, Omi blinking at him and: "...I'm sorry?" The urge to laugh rich in his mind and held back because he hadn't quite figured out if he was supposed to.

(Sure, let him laugh at you.) "Good." Schuldig moved, two steps and he was in front of Omi again, not touching but close, looking down at his shirt and the one sock still dangling from his hand. "Get cold?"

"No, I just thought that--" Speaking the words and leaning toward Schuldig, hands curling up a little and then he pulled back. "You _know_ what I thought. I should go." And turned, hand fisted around his sock now and full of the intention of walking out of here.

Schuldig grabbed his wrist. "No, you shouldn't." (Why? Because you won't have another chance to get laid for a week? Let him leave.) Omi stopped, looked at Schuldig's hand on her wrist and then up at his face. Blank disbelief or dumbfounded or he just didn't know what-- "I want you to stay." (Of course you do.)

"You," disbelief in Omi's voice, loud and clear and echoing in his head. Time passing, and then Omi moved, closer to him and away from the door. "Okay." And he sat on the bed.

Smile across Schuldig's face, grabbed the end of Omi's sleeve and tugged on it. "Good."


	5. Sweet Talk

**Sweet Talk**

Nagi stared; from the curb where Schuldig had picked him up all the way to the hotel. (He sees the difference but doesn't know the why and why aren't you just bursting at the seams to gloat about it?) Silent, perplexed slant to Nagi's eyebrows and his mouth—lips in a flat line. Stared at him when they parked, and as they moved to get out of the car, Schuldig reaching to the backseat to grab his coat, Nagi just there in the passenger seat, wide eyed. Stared as they walked across the parking lot, stared as Crawford dropped the newspaper he'd been pretending to read and gave a great show of looking at his watch.

(Late, Schuldig.)

"You're _early._" No gleam across his glasses there, because Crawford was looking at him with the same blatant confusion that Nagi had been this whole time. Crawford handled it better, shrugged it off his shoulders and said nothing about it.

"Must be a sign of the apocalypse," Schuldig said.

Crawford rolling his eyes. (You never were funny, Schuldig.) Nagi staring without speaking and following behind with all the careful obedience of a show dog; seen but not heard. Into the lobby where the man at the front desk pursed his lips and reminded himself to be nothing but polite to the foreigners. Pale ones with friends in the big penthouse at the top, and those friends—oh, those friends were the sort of guests that this hotel paid him to grit his teeth and smile for.

Onto the elevator—just the three of them. Nobody else wanted in. (Can't imagine why not.) Schuldig leaned back against the wall, turned his head to look at Nagi. "My mouse bit me," he said.

"It has progressed to pet names?" Crawford asked with a sneer. Something oh-so-sardonically amused in the raise of his eyebrow.

(And now what do you say?) Nagi behind him trying to figure out who the mouse was and where he possibly could have bitten Schuldig to explain the strangeness—a shirt with buttons and all the buttons but the very top one done up. Sunglasses in his hair but no bandana and—

"You have full permission to shoot me in the head if it progresses to flowers and candy," Schuldig retorted. Watched Crawford roll his eyes again and look straight ahead—smirked at that and the memory that was hanging there. Precious Crawford, holding onto his indifference and arrogance; but everyone was young and stupid sometime.

Nagi shivering right on the edge of asking who—or where—the elevator stopped. The bell chimed and the doors pulled open silently. A short hallway, one door to the left, Crawford moved first, out of the elevator and up to the door—it opened before he could raise his hand to knock on it. Some nameless non-talent ducking his head in greeting and moving out of the way, careful not to touch Crawford, not to get too close, not to look into Schuldig eyes or even at Nagi's shoes.

(Now that, Schnuckel—_that_ is intimidation.)

Crawford stood straight and perfect, arms hanging down by his sides and without casting a single glance around the room. Nagi at his side doing his best imitation of the same, eyes moving around and taking in the room—looking for an exit. Schuldig sat on the couch, leaning back on it, slouching enough that it made his coat ride up against his arms.

(Yes; antagonize the man that could actually kill you and tell the short one that bears no threat that you want him to stay and let him sleep in your bed.)

Pelagatti stepping out of the bathroom—steam puffing out after him—already smoking one of his fucking cigarettes, the smoke hanging around his face as he grinned at the three of them with all the condescension in the world. Jet black hair combed away from his face. "My friends," he said. In Italian.

Crawford's grasp of the language was tenuous, Nagi's was nonexistent.

"You forgot your clothes," Schuldig said with a nod. (Yes, but he doesn't have teeth marks across his collarbone or little pink and purple bruises on his belly—does he?) Water slipping down his bare chest and stomach and getting absorbed into the towel he had twisted around his waist.

"How nice of you to notice," Pelagatti said. Disgusting sincere quality to his voice—warmth and harmony and all the loving acceptance of a mother's arms; counterpoint to that smirk across his face as he raked his black eyes down Schuldig's body. Barest twitch of his eyebrows at the height of his collar.

"I'm observant."

Pelagatti snorting. His metal shields rippling, reinforcing—always had to remind himself to do that, always had to fortify his mind. He outranked Schuldig—outranked him enough that the bastard wore it like a security blanket around his shoulders. Safe and sound in his good standing before the Three and the smug fuck made sure that thought was bright and loud in the forefront of his mind every time he leaned in close and blew that smoke in Schuldig's face. Outranked him; but Schuldig was a fucking god and Pelagatti was a worthless worm. "We have mapped the best location for the temple to be built," Pelagatti said, in German. "We expect it to be fully functional in a matter of weeks. There is a prestanding structure that will make this simpler, but there are certain necessary modifications that must be made."

There was that non-talent, all but walking with his eyes closed, holding out the packet of information for Crawford to take. Making sure his worthless little talentless fingers didn't come anywhere close to Crawford's hand as he took it. (Pelagatti trains them best—that's why they keep promoting him.)

Silence in the room, Pelagatti pulling the smoke down into his lungs—eyebrows knitting in discerning thought (yeah, built himself some shields, too bad they were full of holes. I hear you, you fucking smug bastard) trying to figure out why Schuldig was wearing a high collar.

"Schwarz is, of course, considered a highly efficient team by some. I think your appointment to this task has more to do with favoritism and the unfortunate coincidence of your knowledge of the area." Strange how the tone didn't match the words and the words didn't match their meaning.

Schuldig looked over at Crawford, saw him close the folder.

"We will just have to do our best to deserve our reputation, sir." Crawford bowing enough to convey obedience (what a world class ass-kisser.) Then he moved to leave. The assignment was given and the task—however impossible it proved to be—must be accomplished.

Schuldig pushed himself up and straightened his coat.

Pelagatti across the room, smooth toned bastard—even with that flat look of dislike on his face as he watched Crawford pull the door open. "What happened to your usual costume, Schuldig?" Inviting little words, asking for a confession—naughty details and all the same.

"Laundry day," he said, smirk across his face.

Knee-jerk reaction in Pelagatti's eyes, in his mind, in the way his teeth clamped down on the cigarette in his mouth and the flex of his hands. The room shivering a little, glass clinking unhappily. (Yeah, you smug fucking bitch--_I'm lying to you._ And there isn't one thing you can say about it.) "I hope you put more consideration into Estet's order than you give to your own wardrobe."

Schuldig said nothing, walked away—smirk broad across his face—(sure thing boss.)

* * *

Omi never bothered asking Schuldig where he was going when he left the apartment, or even when he planned on being back. He figured that was enough courtesy to extend to someone whose company he shouldn't be in to begin with. Omi kept his own schedule, for the most part--get up in the morning, run, shower, dress, find something edible in the treacherous, junk food laden depths of Schuldig's kitchen. Find something vaguely entertaining to do for a few hours. Walk back to his apartment at precisely 2:23 PM to check the mail slot.

The second day he'd stayed out after that, more to prove that he could than for any more practical reason. Schuldig didn't seem phased by this when Omi knocked on the door in the morning--just took the bag of croissants out of his hand and walked back into the living room.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Omi thought he might have wanted to unsettle Schuldig a little by that.

On the third day, he figured he might as well make himself useful and started cleaning the apartment--and when the front door opened he called out "Welcome home" out of sheer habit, despite Schuldig never announcing his arrival and the fact that Omi was elbow-deep in a soapy sink.

He was focused on a pan with something unidentifiable crusted to the bottom of it--no telling how long it had been sitting on the stove waiting to be washed--and only heard the footsteps moving from the entryway, through the living room, into the kitchen and pausing. After an extended period of silence Omi looked up, reaching up with one sudsy hand to shove his bangs back out of his eyes. Schuldig had that smirk on his face--the amused, smug-fucked one.

"What?"

Chair legs squeaking on the floor, a few more rough scrapes at the pot and Schuldig was pulling a chair around, settling it within perfect view of Omi and the sink he was involved with. Schuldig dropped into it, arms hooked over the backrest and one heel on a crosspost. "Am I really that good of a fuck?" He shook his hair out of his face, a half-annoyed toss, and stared.

Intently.

Omi dropped the pot so it drifted to the bottom of the sink with a dull metallic thud, leaning back just enough to look Schuldig full in the face, water dripping on his shirt--but it was already dirty from dusting. "Honestly?" Honestly, Omi thought, he just wanted a clean goddamn plate.

"Then consider buying a disposable one."

He was never going to get used to that.

Whatever was in the bottom of the pot was turning the water black, coating his hands with something greasy and gritty and entirely unpleasant. Omi considered sharing a sponge-full of the mystery substance with its inherent owner. Dismissed the idea and continued scrubbing, let Schuldig enjoy his moment of glory.

Although, Schuldig probably heard that thought. And that one.

Omi stopped abruptly, hands on either side of the sink, staring down at the suds and the black gunk and the sponge floating amongst both like an expired goldfish. Easier than looking at Schuldig and his fluorescent ego. "Are you always in my head?"

"No, sometimes I'm in your--"

"Schuldig." Omi meant to follow that with 'be serious' or something else that wouldn't have worked, but caught himself in a laugh somewhere halfway, leaning over the sink on his elbows. He caught his breath after a few random, repressed sputters and turned just enough to look at Schuldig over his shoulder. He was still wearing that grin. "_That_ would probably be the best time, wouldn't it?"

Grin faltered just a bit, Schuldig interrupting it with a snort. "All of you think that--" Trailed off into a superior huff and that... that stung. _All of you._ "What do you want?"

Omi didn't answer right away; returned to the pot first and favored it with further scrubbing. _All of you. _Let him stew in his lack of attention for that one, for as long as Omi could drag it out. _All of you._

No. No, he's not getting away with that one.

Omi paused, lifted the pot out of the sink, turned around, and promptly dumped its contents over Schuldig's head.

Schuldig was on his feet instantly and cursing in a language that was probably German with a few choice additions. Omi turned back to the sink and just listened to the tantrum play itself out, calmly rinsing the pot, then reaching for a towel to dry it, then pointing out the open drawer of said towels when Schuldig got to the part of the tirade that involved cussing about the mystery pot's black gunk that was now in his hair and WHERE ARE THE FUCKING TOWELS anyway?

Listened until the cussing died down into the sound of annoyed pacing across the wet floor, about the time Omi had the black gunk cleaned out of the sink and was washing his hands off under the tap.

"Bastard," Schuldig was rubbing the towel over his face; Omi saw it from the corner of his eye. "One of them, you don't like being called it don't fucking act like it. And don't stand there with your stupid questions—you know damn good and well I can see in your head." Schuldig's hand on his shoulder, quick turn--not rough but nothing nice about it either. No trace of that grin left on his face now, just an annoyed scowl. "_That_ makes you one of them, stupid fucking people." Pulled one of the bigger chunks of black out of his hair, where it was swinging against his cheek, and flung it into the sink--punctuation, that action. "Ask what you want to know or stand around like all the other dumb fucks and act like I can't rip your brain to shreds."

"Right." Omi didn't say more than that, just stared back, arms folded, unimpressed with all of this. The tantrum and the attitude and--better take him like he is, Tsukiyono, or quit your bitching. He wanted to be direct, so--let's be direct. "Can you see everything? All the..." Conditioning. Programming. Nice little brainwashing job or post-hypnotic suggestion or whatever you called it. Omi tried to say them all and those self-same strings tugged, stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth, stamped CONFIDENTIAL NEED TO KNOW in bright red block across his consciousness. "..._additions_." Schuldig had to have seen that, the way his mind clamped down on itself. Had to have. "And the deletions." About ten years' worth.

And that one little whisper, somewhere in the back where it would never make its way to his mouth, because that, that was going too far. Kritiker may have made a grave error in failing to plan for the unlikely event of a telepath, but taking advantage of that--Omi had no more than that one speck for so much as a single consideration for the possibility.

_Can you undo it?_

"Yes." Flat word, no tone to it, no indication of which question was being replied to--maybe all of them. Schuldig shifted on his feet, pulled a rubber band out of his pocket and pushed his hair back from his face, little bits of black still clinging to it and sloughing off onto his skin. Hands twisting a ponytail and--

Stared.

Omi stared back. Imagined, maybe, that he could feel little movements in his head, Schuldig slinking around and nudging at this and that. It wasn't fair, really, Omi thought--wasn't fair that Schuldig could crawl around in his head and see anything and everything he wanted and all Omi could do was stand there and stare back and wonder what the hell was going on. Whether Schuldig was really reading his mind or just being a pain in the ass; trying to unnerve him, maybe, trying to see if Omi would balk and try to shove him out. Maybe he was just staring.

_If it went the other way, though, what would you look for? Some kind of answer or explanation, why he is what he is--or do you just want to know why he asked you to stay?_

"Okay." Omi said the word slowly, drawing out the silence afterwards just to see--what? Confirmation, maybe. Some kind of smirk or frown or some reaction. _Anything_. "That's all I wanted to know."

And there it was, in all it's neon glory--that knowing, nerve-grating _smirk_.

* * *

This was where they all got it wrong--all of them, everyone from the average moron on a street corner to Pelagatti who should have had the schooling to teach him better to Omi sitting on his lap, still bearing that sting in his head from days ago. He just didn't like being referred to as one of them. Too bad about that because he was one of them. Not the worst of them (not like Pelagatti with his stinking fucking cigarettes blowing smoke in his face and smiling at him so fucking smugly, ordering him to do whatever he wanted just for the sheer amusement of it. Bringing around a new world order and Pelagatti was the Three's favorite. Too bad he was too concerned with Schuldig's wardrobe to notice all those little things that Crawford kept changing.) And Omi had the aptitude to change--he didn't have much time left to do it in, but he had the aptitude.

This was where they got it wrong, the snuggling warm heat up high along the inside of the thigh, damp breath against the tender skin of an exposed throat and the eager touch of fingers pushing their way down into the back of a shirt collar. A dozen little heartbeats and for every throb of a pulse there was another thought that rose and fell. Hair across skin, caught between fingers, pulling--warm, wet mouth, teeth tongue touch--this is where they got it wrong. Even if he had wanted to get into Omi's head (which he had, more than once, and long before little Tsukiyono had even known about it) there were better times to do it. The mind broke down with sex, followed the body, one association after the other, rubbing smoothly along just like every slippery wet sex metaphor a man could think of. Distracting; that slide, grind--like chaos. Too much to work through and disturbing the flow broke the moment. It was possible, there was a ten second window--the perfect opportunity, Hyde had always called it, to get under every defense a mind had. Ten seconds if the orgasm was really that good, more like two or three and the sheer unlikelihood of having that kind of opportunity, trying to get the poor fool there and get in their head at the same time--that was where they got it wrong. (Oh, but he'd done it. Only the idiot never did find out. Crawford took care of that end of it, simple thing to take over a mind when you knew exactly what second they were going to open up so pretty.)

Sitting on the couch, Omi resting on his lap--he had better things to do than worry about that. That warm thigh, trapped under pants. The shorts were better, easier to get his hands inside of (had to watch out for the sharp pointy things, but otherwise.) Easier to find warm skin, he could feel it here through the fabric and it was a tease. Like those fingers pushing down the back of his shirt and the brush of lips against his but it wasn't quite kissing--had been, stopped, breathed and he moved his hands around. Pulled Omi closer to him, little sighing noise as he slouched and that was just about right. Smile, wasn't his, felt it against his mouth and there it was, the kiss that had stopped for no good reason. Let his hands wander up under the T-shirt that Omi was was wearing--why was he wearing so many damn clothes to start with--and another noise, encouraging.

(_2:23._) Better than an alarm clock--it wasn't quite that time. Two twenty maybe, didn't matter, the thought rose up in Omi's mind just the same. (_2:23._) Kritiker's programming like a well-wound watch. The whole of it, all of what they'd put into that mind, was a thing of beauty. Craftsmen with years of practice couldn't have duplicated the simple beauty of what Kritiker had created. (And him, with too much time on his hands, might just have taken the opportunity to utterly destroy that kind of beauty--but what was the point when the world was ending.) A thing of beauty that worked too well, and as it stood, worked against him. Omi was moving away, hand out of his shirt, a nibble at his lips like an apology and he was pushing himself backward off the couch.

It was time to go. Kritiker could want him back, after all, had to check the mail, after all, couldn't just not go home to check because Kritiker could be waiting for him.

Schuldig held onto him, not hard just tugged him back. "You've got three minutes." At least the woman down the hall figured he did, but her time wasn't always accurate.

There went the eyebrows just asking him what the hell he was going on about and if he was trying to be funny. Like that--like, what--"What exactly do you propose we do in three minutes?" The incredulity dripping from his voice as his hands got harder and more insistent. Quite a bit of muscle in that little body and it was all going stiff and resistant in his lap. Itchy fingertips thinking about where all those nice sharp pointy things were. Kritiker's brilliant trained killer, couldn't fight that programming for half a second. It helped, of course that he wasn't trying. Addicts minds worked like that, the next fix, the next fix, the _next_ fix and where was it who had it when could they get it--Omi's was simple. The fix was an empty mailbox.

For all the world, there he sat hanging on to Omi like he cared if he stayed or didn't, feeling this twist of hate in his chest that he was being left and--shook his head, hands up on Omi's shoulders and shoved him backward, watched his balance overtip and stood up all in the same movement. Faster than he should have moved, sneering down at him. At the little programs on endless repeat, at the stupid little boy that wasn't even going to fight back against them. "Get out." And he took a step away from him, slowed down because he was supposed to go slow and didn't turn to look at him. Listened to the scuffle and movement, the indignant flinch of Omi's mind because he had been being nice about it damn it.

He had to go check the mail, he did it every day. He was trying to be nice (he was trying to get out of the door with the least amount of confrontation was what he was doing). A coward and a wimp. Except the way he stood there, jerking his shirt straight and glaring at his back, or maybe just looking. Omi's face didn't often match his thoughts. "What?" the question.

"The door," Schuldig said with a motion toward as it as he walked away from him. One hand brushing his hair back over his shoulder as he went, wondering at the tangles there and not giving one damn what Omi's little mind was building up to.

Omi didn't seem to notice or otherwise care that the door was in the opposite direction as he was going. Feeling his mind boiling up like that, heard the way he was throwing his hands up somewhere in there but it was anger festering in his head and: "What, just like that?" Something sounded like a smack, hand against pants leg or-- "You don't want me to leave to check my goddamned mail and so that's it? What the fuck." Some half formed thought about getting into his face but something held that off, those itchy fingers again, thoughts of weapons and no, not thinking about that because there were more pressing demands. Didn't get in his face but he got around him. "No, really, I think you had a point about lowering yourself to the standards of the rest of us pathetic human beings and proving you really can be as shallow as the rest of us if you're just going to _drop me_ because I'm not fucking convenient enough for you." All he needed was his hands on his hips and he'd be someone's angry wife.

Schuldig cocked up an eyebrow and let his hand fall from his hair, slipping back, fingertips inside his pockets and just staring. Look at that fancy brainwashing now. It was riddled with pock-marks. Dents. Little tiny holes that would look like stars if there were any light shining through. But there wasn't. Just anger, annoyance, because Omi damn sure wasn't going to get dropped over a damn mailbox.

Wouldn't Kritiker be proud?

A smile spreading across his face as he tipped his head a little, hair sliding back over his shoulder, off his neck, the length of his bangs in his eyes because he wasn't wearing the bandana. "You think you're more than that?" He wanted to laugh at him and didn't. Stared at the holes and wondered how long it would take to tear one far enough to give Tsukiyono a fighting chance. Just to see what it would do, just to cause a little chaos on his way out anyway--just to make this game more amusing (because that was all it was, surely, just a game. Just a game and that's why he was jealous of a damn mailbox, too).

Omi's hands in fists. (Oh he figured that one out all on his own. Good boy.) "Then that would make two of us, wouldn't it?"

The smile didn't falter, got a little crueler maybe, a little broader across his face as he shrugged. Simple movement, shoulders up and down and no other need to express himself. A convenient fuck was what he was, an enemy too and Omi was going to get back around to that very soon. Basic defense of the program, really, whatever challenged it was considered a threat, whatever threatened the program threatened whoever controlled it and that was dealt with decisively. It was a wonder that Omi wasn't holding those nice sharp little shuriken already. (And there you are, waiting to push your luck.) He took a step forward and Omi didn't move, another one and he still didn't move, hand out of his back pocket. (This is going to end in bruises.) Over Omi's shoulders against the wall he wasn't more than eight inches from anyway and bending down. Other hand out and pushing against Omi's collarbone, gentle push and next to no give there. "You know what barbed wire is?" he asked.

Narrow little glare, mental processes flexing and trying to figure that one out. Omi moved half a step since there wasn't any real danger in doing so. "Yes."

(Oh and check the time, that was coming soon. Pock marks, holes and dents aside, there it was and gathering strength to get back the control that it was losing.)

"That's your mind," he said. It was the simplest explanation to someone that hadn't seen it before. No way to show him what it looked like--well, there was but he was too damn lazy to put that much energy into it. "It isn't so bad when you lay still like a good boy; and you're damn good at laying still like a good boy, aren't you?" He cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You don't want to be one of them, another idiot that gets mindfucked without even knowing it--stop obeying your master like a good little beaten dog." That close he could feel the nasty way the programming twisted, louder in the forefront of his mind than anything Omi could think under it. Hurt, and Schuldig closed his eyes under the wash of it. Mouth open to breathe. "So go," he said simply and pushed back away from him. "Better run if you want to make it."

Omi leaned back, hand up and fingers rubbing at his head. Grimace in there because he was fighting against that compulsion to run. That at least was interesting. Compulsions were funny beasts that could eat a man alive and there Omi stood looking at him, working through the pain in his head just to keep his feet still. "I'm not leaving." Most times, people didn't know they were fighting their own mind. It was all subconscious, it was when it bled over that you could do anything about it. "We're not done yet." Omi knew it was there which meant the bleed had started, through those little holes.

That made him more interesting. Unless he destroyed his mind all for the sake of being stubborn and what exactly did he want out of this--standing there looking at him like that. He laughed, it wasn't nearly as cruel as it could have been, just acknowledgment of the stupidity he was watching. "You're going one way or another--" There it was, reluctant little thought that was all but a whisper and barely coherent but he could feel it, knew the way it felt because it had been there before, brushing up against his mind when they touched, slept, when Omi stopped eating at his table to look over at him sometimes, caught between disbelief and heavy thinking. Schuldig knew that thought, the strangeness of it. "I like your mind in one piece, so go." And that was all he was giving.

(You're so getting laid.) Yes, well.

Omi almost nodded, didn't, some half thought as he stepped forward like he should kiss Schuldig, maybe, didn't know, it wasn't a full thought and then it wasn't a thought at all. Shoes were a thought, they were by the door and he was late, that was a thought. Shoes, late, past 2:23 by now and movement. He was yanking on his shoes by the door and on his way.

Which left Schuldig exactly back at the beginning, with rats in his hair.

* * *

He was dreaming... something. It had something to do with caterpillars and standing outside his senior classroom with a bucket of water in either hand, though what those two things had to do with each other even the dream didn't seem to know for sure. There was a moment of half-waking, of the awareness of the real world in relation to the dream and a brush of cold on his shoulder, and he tugged his one blanket up further, curling in, because Schuldig still didn't comprehend how to share his bed with a second person.

When he returned to the dream, it had shifted to become something about bicycle chains and buttering toast, and this was the point at which something elbowed him in the ribs.

Ow.

Half-awake again, Omi squirmed away from the intrusion, waving one hand idly as though to bat something away--which was probably ineffectual, as his hands were still under the blankets and the elbowing was clearly coming from elsewhere and in an entirely different direction.

A knee landed on his thigh and he wriggled again, blankets flapping and resettling over his face. "Nnf. Go away."

And then there was a weight and--there was no creature in the universe with that many knees and elbows. He was clearly still dreaming, and so thought nothing of shoving at the weight and all the joints it might possess, rolling enough that it didn't land on anything sensitive.

Thump on the floor and the weight vanished, and all his squirming tugged the blanket off his face and shoulders and he half sat up, elbows propped on the mattress and blinking at the bedroom around him like he'd never seen such a thing in his life, particularly just after battling a knee-and-elbow monster intent on impaling him.

Schuldig was standing alongside the bed, one hand caught in a tangle in his hair and muttering something in German while trying to free his fingers. Sweatpants sliding a little low on one hip.

"Did you just... crawl over me?" Omi's voice came out thick and breathy with sleep, one hand reaching up to rub at his eye.

Schuldig glared over his shoulder and grumbled something--realized he was still speaking in German and backtracked, scowling and yanking his hand out of his hair. Reaching down to straighten his pants. "You're on my side of the bed." It was annoyed and arrogantly cowed; trying to pretend he hadn't just slipped. Like a cat that fell off the windowsill on its ass then stood up and sauntered away like that hadn't really just happened. You were imagining things.

Omi blinked, first at Schuldig (and the way his back was curved and stretching, shoulders shrugging up and then down, lean muscle under skin) and then at the bed, shoved into the corner as it was and himself lying on the outer edge. "You don't have a side of the bed, Schuldig. You take up the whole goddamn thing and I sleep wherever there's a bare inch left to do so."

Schuldig was still scowling, and it was muffled and half-awake and nothing near intimidation. "Next time, make sure that bare inch is over there." He gestured, one finger towards the wall with every expectation of Omi relocating there immediately, despite the fact that sleep was clearly over for the day. He'd almost turned around to shuffle off to the shower, intent in the set of his shoulders and his cell phone was lying open on the bedside table; Omi didn't remember hearing it ring. Paused to look back again. "And what the hell are you complaining about, anyway? You can't need more than one or two inches of space anyway." He made another gesture, in a general kind of way. Eyebrows drawn together and then turned on his heel, stalking off to the door. Then, like an afterthought: "Shorty."

...Omi blinked, yet again, because he did not just say that. Clearly, he was still dreaming. _Clearly_.

"You prefer midget?" Tossed over Schuldig's shoulder as he stepped through the doorway.

No, Omi thought as loudly as he could. No, I am not short, I'm _Japanese_, and _you_ are just freakishly tall.

There was laughter, somewhere in the hall, before the bathroom door closed.

He dropped back off his elbows, onto the bed--Schuldig's side of the bed or whatever, but he noted when he rolled onto his side, face sinking into the pillow that he could smell his shampoo. Omi slid halfway into the idea of returning to sleep when the pipes creaked as the shower turned on, tugging the blanket back up. Thought about getting up and going for a jog. Thought about the race to the mailbox the other day, cool afternoon and the sun on his shoulders and how his mind had dropped everything that had just happened until he arrived at the little apartment, sadly abandoned now with the futon still unrolled and unused on the floor and Ken's card still sitting in the window.

He had to stop, then, just inside and on the floor after finding the box empty--stop and backtrack and pull back the pieces of what had happened despite his mind dismissing them as unimportant in the face of that compulsion. Mail time.

Omi thought about rolling further into the center of the bed, where Schuldig's body heat was still trapped under the blankets, and curling up there. Whether he slept any further or not was unimportant.

When Schuldig returned to the room, shower-damp with a towel over his head (and none around his waist, it should be noted), Omi watched him from over the edge of his own cocoon of blankets. Watched him wrap himself into clothes intended to accentuate and suggest and attract interest, and he'd been doing that for a few days now and he had to hear the questions rising up in Omi's head. What was with that, what he was doing. A very small concern for _who_.

But then, he always had that distracted, irritable expression, so maybe he wasn't listening. Omi closed his eyes, snuggled deeper into the warm center of the bed.

Schuldig made a noise--a bitter kind of snort, just loud enough to jerk him back to attention, eyes open and watching him stalk across the room. "I wouldn't fuck that arrogant asshole with a nail studded pole." Spat the sentence like a bad taste out of his mouth, pausing beside the bed to pick up the cell from the bedside table and snap it shut. Staring down at Omi, meeting his eyes, expression settling and relaxing into something like contemplation. "Jealousy is like sauerkraut, you know."

Omi wasn't entirely sure what sauerkraut was, or what it tasted like, but Schuldig didn't appear to find the idea particularly disgusting. And Omi had the idea, just for a minute, shifting a little to pull the blankets down--of sitting up, reaching out and pulling Schuldig down to him, convincing him back under the covers and back against his skin and kissing and wrapping around him until he decided that work wasn't so important, after all. Whatever 'work' happened to be that day.

He was almost poised to do just that, too, but Schuldig was toying with the phone in his hand, turning it over and over in his palm until abruptly, like responding to something he'd thought, it hummed metallically and started ringing.

He'd been waiting for that. Must be nice, knowing who was going to call before they did.

Schuldig stared at him without saying anything (and he must have heard that, Omi's idea, he was too intent to not have)--flipped the phone open and held it to his ear without saying anything. Tinny sound there, some word--and in response, a slow smirk across Schuldig's face. Eyebrows tilting up. One word in return--'ja', or something like that, though Omi didn't think it meant the same thing as in his language--and then the phone snapped shut and dropped with a clatter on the surface of the bedside table. "I think your plan is better."

Omi licked his lips. "Oh?"

And he didn't have to pull, because Schuldig crawled onto the bed and under the covers and over him all on his own, hands under his shoulders and kissing, hot and intent and Omi tilted his head back, tongue teasing at the part between lips and slid his palms over Schuldig's neck. His hair was damp; it clung to the backs of his hands.

Soft sound, just in the back of his throat and he pressed up--thin, thin fabric of Schuldig's shirt between skin and skin. Slid his palms down over it, slow caress, and curled his fingers in it.

Press of hips in retaliation, down, into the mattress and a slow rub, kiss tilting and pressing harder--deeper. _Shuddered_. Felt it, electric down his spine. Schuldig's hand tangled in the hair on the back of his neck.

Stay. Omi gasped it in half a breath, teeth curling around the corner of Schuldig's mouth and pressing just enough to feel. Not words, just a thought there where it couldn't be missed. _Want you_.

There was a movement, against his mouth--a pulling, upturn of lips and it wasn't a smirk. A smile, Schuldig nuzzling his cheek, and then kissing again--hotter and harder and more intent, hands down his back and shivering. Omi's fingers traveling around the shirt, curling more, tugging harder, knees pressing against hips and hips pressing _up_.

_Oh_.

He might have cried out, later, sometime after those unnecessary clothes being tugged around and teeth and the salt tang of Schuldig's skin on his tongue. Somewhere at the end of the hot, shivering press in and in and _yes, yes_--somewhere there. In among the quivering orgasm at the end. Taste of Schuldig's name in his mouth.

He was still sweating and trembling, just a bit, when Schuldig climbed out of bed--and he wore that look fantastically. Buttoned his pants closed and with his shirt still askew and high on one side you could see the little red lines of scratches on his hip. Teeth marks and a small purpling bruise just above where the waistband lay. Even tugged down, the shirt was clearly wrinkled beyond his usual level of presentability--nowhere near buttoned enough to be decent and far too many red marks visible along the neckline. One bright just under his ear.

His hair was a mess, his lips were red, and the pleased level of his smirk was slightly terrifying.

Omi would have had a thought--he's seriously going out like that?--but post-orgasmic satiation kind of killed anything resembling thought. He sat up just a little, pulling the sheet around himself and Schuldig leaned down, one hand tilting his chin up to kiss him quickly. Slow trail of tongue across his lips.

"Thanks." Murmured hot and close. And he must have really been late, because a minute later he had snatched up the phone and disappeared out the door and Omi was still sitting with his head tilted back.

He really was going out like that.

Someday, Omi thought, he was really going to have to find out just what was going on.

* * *

Oh, Omi would have kittens if he knew about the unamused telekinetic standing in the stairwell outside the apartment. Crawford must have called him or he would have come all the way up to the apartment and come right in all on his own. He was standing exactly where he had gotten the phone call, looking bored because he was incapable of a different look, wearing his school uniform for a school he never attended. Staring straight at the wall and slowly, methodically peeling the paint away from it.

It was a pointless exercise; nothing more than an isometric workout for telekinetics. Only for all his power, Nagi lacked the imagination it took to do the exercise right, he needed something to push, so he peeled paint off the wall, separating it from the granite while pushing it flat against it. The whole sheet of it was going to stay right there until someone breezed past too fast and it would fall in one fantastic mess. Ugly off white snowflakes.

"We're late," Schuldig announced as he went past him. Oh, and from the reactive twitch of Nagi's mind there was no mistaking what he thought of the events leading to their tardiness, or of the smell, or of the way his shirt was rumpled and where was his jacket? Crawford would have one for him. The bastard paid excellent attention to detail like that. He gave another tug at the shirt and it didn't do anything at all to help the look.

The old spinster lady was pulling open the door to the building when he brushed past—that was so nice of her really—and she shrieked in outrage of foreigners, of flamboyant and that wasn't even the same boy that—the man was a pedophile, all those lovely boys and— Schuldig laughed, turned back to grin at her because he damn sure could hear her thoughts, she flinched away from him. Called him the devil and Nagi stared at him like he couldn't be more bored.

"How many vehicular laws are we about to break," he asked.

"I'm feeling ambitious," Schuldig informed him and the locks on the car popped open. He opened the door and Nagi slid into the front seat, took in a deep breath and set himself to the appropriate task. Schuldig started the car, shook his hair behind his shoulders and wondered if Crawford would have a bandana too. Found his glasses sitting on the gear shift and put them on, pushed his bangs out of his face with them and hit the accelerator.

Nagi had to concentrate, fingers spread out, arms rigid, looking like a badly posed doll and Schuldig just had to think of bubbles. Big bubbles, all around, pushing people's minds to the side, they followed with their cars, with their attention, they saw nothing at all. They passed two cops on the way and they didn't even blink—except to wonder at the wind blowing in his wake. Nagi took care of the rest, prevented the accidents. A more practiced telekinetic could kill the engines without damaging the cars. Nagi was a powerhouse, finesse wasn't exactly his speciality, he could total the car with a glance. His shield around Schuldig's car sent anything it touched rebounding the way it came.

"I expect," Nagi said when they parked. "Fair compensation for saving your ass."

Schuldig grinned harder, climbed out of the car and tossed the keys on the floorboard. Those were a weapon—weapon—he popped the trunk and got his gun. Pulled it on over the rumpled shirt and checked the clip. Still had bullets, must be because he didn't ever use any. Nagi was standing on the curb looking more bored now. Except he didn't like Pelagatti, didn't like him at all, found him to be a creepy old man that—that served no purpose. He had no reason for his actions.

"Why?" Nagi said when the curiosity was about to kill him.

Schuldig walked up to the door of the hotel, shrugging his shoulders as he pulled opened the door. Caught the sight of another little mark on his skin and smiled at it. Wondered if his neck looked anything like how Omi had seen it and figured it must or Nagi wouldn't be staring anywhere else so hard—and then fingers on his arm. (Crawford, offering punishment for disobedience, now smile for the birdie.) Sudden, sharp—he didn't even flinch, moved with the motion and ended up face first against the wall. Flipped around to face front and backhanded. "Nice," he said without looking back, spit on the floor and straightened himself up. Eyes flicking up to the camera in the little space, the people not looking at them and did his best to look annoyed instead of cowed. Crawford moved closer and Schuldig kept his face down, speaking in low toned German. "How's our friend?"

"Nice touch," Crawford remarked with nothing more than a thought to let him know that it was those marks on his neck that met with his executive approval. Which meant Pelagatti was going to be staring at them without stopping during the whole of the day. Schuldig couldn't fucking wait for that, he straightened up now, pulled his shirt down again and that dragged Crawford's attention down to his hip, red mark there. "Better."

"Tomorrow I could just come in drag, if you think that'd help," Schuldig said and ran his tongue across his teeth. Hated blood in his mouth. He flipped his hair over his shoulders and shoved Crawford away from him. Walking away like he was nothing but unimportant and Nagi stayed behind, he moved when their illustrious leader moved.

(_Bring a lollipop tomorrow, he'll get on his knees and beg you for it_.) Crawford's sarcasm always was as dry as a post. Pelagatti wouldn't beg, he'd demand and he wouldn't be on his knees. He was one of those fancy telekinetics that could kill the car engines of every vehicle in three city blocks. (And he had a startling aptitude for bio-telekinesis too.)

Schuldig took the elevator and left them on the ground floor. There was a jacket waiting for him at the top next to the elevator under the table. Brand new, pitch black, tight and fitted exactly to his waist. He pulled it on and made no effort to make it straight or presentable. Breezed passed the guards without them seeing him and opened the door.

"So sorry," he announced in grand Italian. "I had a pressing engagement that just couldn't wait."

Pelagatti took a half look at him, stinking cigarette clamped between his teeth in aggravation at being kept waiting (truth be told, Schuldig wasn't but three minutes late) and stopped short before he even started on a thought. Stopped suddenly and just stayed there at the sight of him like a record skipping. Lust and frustration and hate all in one. Oh, lust, it was easy to feel that one.

(And it's got nothing to do with your pretty face.) A grin across his face as he shrugged the jacket backward off his shoulders, let it pull the shirt up and it bared his belly. All those cute little marks there, dried spit from the mouth that left them, didn't make an attempt to clean up at all, he smelled—sticky—it was completely disrespectful. To Pelagatti, to Estet, to himself, to Crawford, to anyone and everyone he came into contact with today. There he stood with his stupid face and he was grinning. Pelagatti wanted to hit him—push him against the wall and fuck him.

Yeah, that one.

Schuldig tossed the coat on the couch and walked over, easy movement, not afraid, had the gun. The talentless idiots parted and scattered and Crawford made it into the room about the time Schuldig stopped next to the table Pelagatti was sitting at. Real close, close enough he could smell the stink of sweat and come and tipped his head. Let his hair—never mind how long he spent brushing it not too long ago—fall to the side.

"Did you," Pelagatti said finally. Quiet and inviting. He looked over at Crawford who was hatefully glaring at Schuldig like he was about to take him out and beat him. That brought the attention to his mouth. (Red lips, and oh what Pelagatti would do with his lips) and the handprint across his cheek.

An absent gesture with his hand as he sat in the chair left there for him. Leaning back in the seat, arm hooking over the back of it, drawing all that attention back to his waist, his hip and crossing his legs with all the ease in the world.

"Crawford," Pelagatti said. In his stinking Italian, rich and laden with promises of better things and the good life. The subtle rattle of glassware on the shelves and Nagi couldn't help himself but wonder at that. The storm of things in Pelagatti's mind would have had Nagi flattening an orphanage. "I was told you had better control over your subordinates than this."

"He will be appropriately dressed the next time we meet," Crawford informed him.

"See to it," Pelagatti said with another lingering glance at his waist. (Yeah, you fucker, look all you want and think about it too. Won't Estet be so damn proud when they find out you spent too much time drooling with your dick to pay attention to how the temple was aligned all wrong? Damn proud.) "Schuldig, do something to make yourself presentable."

He considered that, briefly, really did and stood up, went over to the couch and picked up the jacket. (Precognitive bastard better not have (_Inside pocket_, the flawless little thought interrupting his.)) Schuldig held it by the collar, dug his hand down inside of it and found a hair band. He shook his hair, tipping his head back and raked the hair away from his face. Pulled it back and tied it up loosely. The long strands of his bangs fell right back like they were, he put the glasses back over them.

Pelagatti was six breaths from fucking him over the back of the couch, fat fingers ripping at his hair and Crawford couldn't stop smirking in his head. Just all but laughing himself sick at the sight of all this. Dragging his brain back through the torture that was the official guide of rules—engagement and threats and ownership claims or whatever they had called them. Pelagatti regarded the letter opener on the table.

(Bastard.) Schuldig didn't flinch, shook out the jacket and figured he might as well put it on. (_Leave it off_, Crawford's thought. Calm as a day in May. Because he wasn't the one about to get stabbed. _You'll need it to cover the blood._) The bastard better be the one sewing him up too. He had just about enough damn scars. He wanted to know where he was going to get stabbed. Instead he threw the coat back over the couch and put one hand on it, looking up finally and there was the stinking Italian.

"I'm presentable now," Schuldig informed him and let the arrogance drip off his voice.

Pelagatti fingered the letter opener in his hand for a minute, thinking it over, where it would hurt, where it would heal, where it wouldn't affect operating standards and figured that Schuldig couldn't protect himself hand to hand even if he had to. "Let's go," he said.

Schuldig looked over at Crawford and he hadn't changed the look on his face, the stance of his posture, the way his mind was humming along and waiting for the inevitable. (_I'll sew you up if you mind fuck the hell out of him for this…_)

(Time loss?) And the barest glint of a smirk on Crawford's face about the time Pelagatti changed his mind about mercy, spun around with that letter opener and—white, hot pain. Washing over red and throb, hurt, stabbing him in the damn arm, up near his shoulder, through the shirt, and into his skin, digging down, flesh and he flung his arm out. Too much kick there to be his own power, wondered if Nagi helped or—didn't care, blood washing down his arm, the talentless morons were reaching because Pelagatti was stumbling backward, going to fall.

The master just didn't fall. Schuldig grabbed the letter opener and yanked it out of his arm. There, that was suitable, took a snapshot of how it looked from all those minds around him (going to need that to put it right again) and then stopped them. Took seventeen seconds for the morons rushing forward, but they froze mid step, Nagi extending a little energy to blanket the room and keep them still. Pelagatti went under faster because he'd been staring at Schuldig's non-existent tits for a week instead of concentrating on his shields. There were enough places he already had under his control that getting him into a sensory-deprived coma was a simple matter of a flipping a few switches.

"Fuck," Schuldig snapped at Crawford. He couldn't move, the blood spatters would give him away. "No scar," he said, to clarify because he damn sure didn't get stabbed for anything less.

"No scar," Crawford assured him. "Our friend needs to be taught a lesson." With some observation as to the blood on his arm, the sweat pouring down his back and Schuldig just smirked. (_Like a kid on Christmas morning—_.)

For all that he could do—oh and he could do so much—he couldn't do anything. Pelagatti was an Estet trained talent, he'd notice too much time elapsed, his mind was weak but it was aware of these concepts of time loss and manipulation. And—blood on the carpet, had to move this along. He got inside his head, through those same little channels, pushing at them and opening them wider. Nice the way his stupid Italian mind just rolled over and took it. Found the places his talent worked from and sank his fingers into them—sticky, hateful, his power all ran through him on the current of anger. Almost all telekinetics did. A few simple touches there and a new channel straight through his so called shield straight into the talent center.

Beautiful and since he was there, he dropped a compulsion. Fun little thing, slow building, annoying habit he was going to pick up, uncontrollable, easy to mistake as a medical thing. Loss of bladder control—learned that one back at Rosenkreuz.

"Time," Crawford said.

Schuldig called up that snap shot, changed the time on the clock in the picture and projected it back out, sank through the paralyzed minds and got himself back into position. Nagi moved a half centimeter to right himself and lifted Pelagatti up enough that he'd hit the floor when he came to.

And—_action_.

Schuldig through the letter opener at the floor. "Bastard," he looked at his arm, fingers through the ripped sleeve and looking at the skin, pulling it open and hissing at the sudden flare of pain that ran straight down to his elbow. "You _ruined_ my shirt." He went for the gun and seven of those talentless morons swarmed and stood in front of Pelagatti.

Mindless, brainless, pointless little idiots that would take a bullet or six just for their precious master. Better a bullet then having your testicles relocated to your throat from inside your body. Pelagatti trained them best, after all.

"Don't be so dramatic," Pelagatti said. He stood up and brushed himself off, looked for his cigarette that had been extinguished. Picked it up, someone produced a lighter without fail and he sucked in a lungful of that disgusting smoke. Came around over to where he stood holding the gun, blew that smoke in his face. "I expect you to be presentable tomorrow." Then turning to look over at Crawford. "Fix him up. We need to be at the build site in less than ten minutes."

If they knew who the damn sacrifice was—this would be over. Forget the temple, forget the Three, the book, the artifacts—if they knew who the sacrifice was they could descend this whole stupid, stinking, ridiculous planet into chaos and fucking bastards like Pelagatti with his slick black hair and eyes that never stopped looking, always looking—they would be dead. Fuck him? Fuck them, every single one of them.

Crawford had his hand on him, his shoulder, neck, somewhere not at all neutral, pushing him toward the bathroom and he went. Yanked the gun off, the shirt, looked over at his arm, the blood still coming out of it. He stood because there was nowhere comfortable to sit and Crawford found all the supplies they'd need in the cabinet.

There was an annoying little man from Hong Kong about three floors down that wouldn't stop thinking about cogs. Cogs, cogs, cogs—salesman? Didn't know but he suddenly had one hell of a pain in his left shoulder that had him rolling on the floor panting like a dog and peeing on himself.

Schuldig just watched the needle pass through the flesh, watched Crawford pull it closed with precise accuracy, detached and calm. It looked pretty good when it was done and he got his arm washed off too before they headed back out. Shirt off, all of Omi's hard work displayed without the hindrance of damn near see-through white cloth—Pelagatti grunted something about finally and couldn't stop himself from a little hand-rub under the table where nobody could see.

Right.

"Ready boss?" Schuldig asked as he pulled the shirt back on. He let go of Mr. Hong Kong Cogs and the man wheezed in relief and passed out. The doctors would call it a seizure.

"In a minute," Pelagatti said, because he suddenly had the unstoppable urge to go to the bathroom.

* * *

Schuldig spent the better part of two days in a state of belligerent euphoria. At least, Omi assumed that he did. He himself left somewhere early in the morning after he arrived home with his shoulder bandaged--"Asshole stabbed me," he'd said, and presumably he was talking about the same asshole he wouldn't fuck with a nail-studded pole. He left, after spending the night on the couch, when it became clear that this shift in demeanor hadn't gone away after sleep and a pointed lack of sex, and therefore it might not go away at all for a while yet.

He'd almost packed his things and taken them, too--not all of them, because it would have taken too long to find the socks he thought he might have lost under the bed and collect his toothbrush and comb from the kitchen drawer they were stashed in (because Schuldig never actually used those, and therefore they were safe) or see if he had really dropped that volume of manga behind the couch. Almost did--because this version of Schuldig reminded him too much of the bastard he'd met in the rain on the side of the road a month ago. Too much of the man Omi was more than happy to label an enemy.

(Liked him better when he was halfway between amused and prickly. Liked him better when he was sleepy and defiant of having done anything stupid. Liked him better when he said things like "Stay" and "I like your mind in one piece" and even when he stared like he was shuffling around through Omi's thoughts. Liked him better when his hands and mouth were occupied with various patches of skin, coaxing out little moans and gasps and shivers. Liked him best then.)

Omi wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, though, that maybe this was a temporary thing. So he left, and left all his things where they were to prove that he did intend to come back at some point, and went out to spend time in anyplace at all that Schuldig wasn't.

He ended up in Shinjuku out of habit more than design and had nearly turned onto the street the Koneko resided on before remembering that he had no business being there, or anywhere near there, and he would probably do well to remove himself from the general area as quickly and quietly as possible.

So he backtracked, climbed on the subway and rode back to the station nearest his apartment and the high school he'd left behind only a few weeks ago, now--felt longer than that. Felt like an eternity of waiting and checking the mail and distracting himself with a telepathic redhead.

Schuldig was interesting, he'd decided, because he was a kind of puzzle. An endless one, like a Rubik's cube spliced with the genes of a hydra. You made all the twists and turns and figured out the pattern of the first cube, and then, just as you solved it, three new ones grew in its place.

They always got the sex right, though. That part wasn't a problem.

He bought two skewers of takoyaki from the vendor on the corner and had polished them both off by the time he arrived at his apartment, and considered doing some grocery shopping at whatever point he decided to return to Schuldig's. The man never had anything decent to eat.

Omi spent most of the late morning and early afternoon cleaning his apartment, and by the end all the clutter was carefully stowed away and his futon had aired out and had its linen changed and was rolled up back in its cabinet. And, wonder of wonders, there was actually space to move around in the small room. He'd even found a stash of wasabi chips and pocky he'd forgotten about.

He found a shoulderbag and packed the Nintendo in it, because Schuldig's apartment was in desperate need of a console. He stuffed some more manga in alongside that, because he'd been meaning to read those and had nothing but time on his hands these days.

He sat for a while staring at the laptop closed and silent on the small desk (it had been hiding under some laundry, previously) and considered it. Under any other circumstances, it would already have been set up and operating quietly on a coffee table or counter at whatever location Omi found himself staying in, but in this instance... that was his 'work' laptop. Kritiker-issued for mission specs and related hacking, and it wouldn't surprise him in the least if it fed back data to them as well. He wondered, for another moment, what they must think of this apparent radio silence emitting from their protégé. No phone calls, no laptop activity, nothing really to track or trace. They had to be relying, now, on all the hardwiring in his head to keep him in line.

No, he couldn't take the laptop. If for no other reason, those two parts of his life had no business mingling. Maybe he could buy a new one--personal use. He had that expenditure account, and there was no tuition to pay anymore. It was a thought.

At precisely three o'clock, like clockwork his head turned toward the door and his eyes landed on the mail slot.

Schuldig had been right about that--conditioning like barbed wire, he knew it was there and he could almost, almost push back against it but at some point the barbs dug in. Painful. He could try--just a little, just to test the limits, but not more than that. Just a little bit of rebellion, because he was bored.

(And that's totally why you're sleeping with the enemy, Tsukiyono.)

An envelope slipped through the slot, hit the bottom of the box with a light, metallic thunk. The sound felt louder than it actually was, and for a moment Omi thought he could feel the vibration of it right down to his toes.

He walked over with all the normalcy in the world, reached down to pull it out. Nerves singing. Just a small, white envelope, local postage. No return address, but he knew the handwriting on the front. Something in his spine deflated and his body relaxed.

Not Kritiker--nope. Just Ken, yet again.

Tore the envelope along the short edge and pressed it open, catching the paper inside with two fingers and drew it out. Notebook paper, three holes in one side, folded in threes and ridges in the back from the press of a ballpoint pen. Something scribbled on the back in pencil--'tea rose + lily, white ribbon'. Flower order? Odd.

(He could pick out the arrangement in his head, though. Decide the width and cut of ribbon and how to tie it.)

_Dear Omi._ the letter began, Ken's kana-scrawl tracking across the top. Omi felt a hint of a smile jumping around on his face.

_I haven't heard from you lately so I thought I would write to you to see how you were.__  
__  
How have you been? I know you said you weren't wanting to do college so I wondered what you were doing with your self or if maybe you had changed your mind. I can't really imagine you going off to work in a suit every day yet and college sounds fun but I guess you could get a good job now even without that. But do what makes you happy.__  
__  
Anyway I hope your okay still. If there is anything the matter and i can help at all please get in touch and let me know but I guess that's likely not it. your still just busy a lot even though school is out. If you want to call or anything I would like to talk again sometime, only could you do it in the evening because I've got another job. Still coaching Tuesday and Friday nights though so maybe not then though.__  
__  
So I probably didn't tell you but I am now working at another flower shop. I cant quite believe it either but it beats Lotteria which sucked and the hours aren't so bad, they're a lot more regular. Terada got me onto it, he said he didn't know why I was working parttime at a burger place if I could do flower arranging and stuff and i guess he was right, it was kinda stupid but it feels weird to be doing the flower stuff and not the rest of it and it's strange being by myself. I got a couple of girls show up from nowhere and ask where the rest of you were though. One asked me if I knew Aya's phone number! I just said i didn't know which is true enough I guess.__  
__  
I kind of miss you guys when I am in the shop. My boss is nice but she is very diffrent.__  
__  
Yesterday I tried calling Youji but i can't remember his phone number, I must have written it down somewhere but I lost it. And I looked in the book but I couldn't find him there, I guess he hasn't been working by himself long enough to be there. Do you have it?__  
__  
Maybe we could meet up some time soon. I guess there isn't much about us you want to __remember but it's still strange to not see one another at all any more. I could buy you some coffee or something some time. If you want to call me then maybe we can fix something up?__  
__  
I should go now because it's late and I need to be at work early tomorrow. The commute is a bitch.__  
__  
Love, Ken__._

"You're, Ken," Omi murmured to himself and the empty room around him. Felt the little tremor in his voice. "It's _you're_."

He folded the paper back up and replaced it in the envelope, then almost slipped it into the bag with the Nintendo and the manga. Then almost set it on the windowsill next to Ken's graduation card, then changed his mind and almost stuck it in the bag again.

Then straightened, envelope clutched in one hand and pulled the cell out of his pocket, flipped it open for the first time in weeks and hovered right there, thumb over the button, Ken's name and number lit up on the screen. Right on the edge of doing it.

What are you going to say, Tsukiyono? They might not call you back, they might never call you back but Ken doesn't seem to care all that much, he has the luxury of not having to care. Of just assuming they can all be normal again, that you, even--you can be normal, with a normal job and a normal life. What are you going to tell him?

He folded the phone over, slowly, thumb pushing it closed until it clicked into place. Slid the letter, carefully, just under the edge of the laptop on the desk, so it didn't get lost. That part of his life would have to keep itself company for a while longer.

Omi shouldered the bag on his way out the door--he would go pick up some groceries. No, he'd go browse Akihabara for a laptop, first--waste some more time away from Schuldig and hope to god he'd gotten over himself by the time he got back. Bring some groceries. Something for dinner, not that he could cook worth a damn.

He never thought, once, that he wouldn't go back. But the idea of that slipped over the surface of his thoughts and aside so easily that he didn't bother pondering on it anymore.

* * *

_Do you really,_ Crawford had said, or maybe thought, the only difference between the two in him was the tone of disinterest his voice could maintain. _Intend to sleep on the floor of my office?_ Yes, yes he did. Because he couldn't tell the difference between a thought and a spoken word without concentrating hard enough to make his temples ache. He was getting fuzzy, he was in pain and the only damn way he was going to take anything for that pain long enough to sleep, long enough to give his head a rest, was-- He didn't trust Crawford on the merit of his word alone; that was all Rosenkreuz training, the two of them had been together since Crawford stepped foot in the school. Crawford would keep him alive because it was default functioning. The bastard didn't know that, not consciously, he clung to the idea that he could let Schuldig die or just kill him when he didn't need him anymore, but he did need him.

At least he was entertaining.

_I heard it's comfortable,_ he had said back and popped the pills into his mouth, chased them down with water and accepted the pillow that Crawford handed over with flat wordless glare. Nagi might have worked, but bribing him into coming to Schuldig's apartment when it stank of little Weiss boy would have required more of a commitment on his part than he wanted to offer. Besides, the kid had delusions of romance floating around in his head. So he slept on his new black coat on the floor of Crawford's office. Comatose sleep, nothing to hear but the silence of his own mind and nothing to feel because the raging white pain in his shoulder had settled down.

There was coffee waiting when he woke up. Crawford was sipping his own over on the chair, leaning back with his feet crossed at the ankle and not exactly looking at the screen. Schuldig sat up, rubbed his head because the voices were back, dull whispers but back all the same, and his shoulder throbbed a little in protest to movement but it was easier to manage. Pelagatti was there too, a red spot in the corner of his head doing nothing but existing because he was too far away to manipulate. Schuldig stood up, grabbed the coffee and stood behind Crawford's chair, just to see the screen.

Hospital records.

And then Crawford tipped his head back, smug arrogance in that smile across his face because he'd gone off and done his part like a good boy. Something vicious in the white edge of teeth that Schuldig always had liked about him. _I found it_, the singsong sweet little melody of a thought. Schuldig leaned in over the chair, fingers resting on the back of it, not quite touching Crawford but their minds were close enough it felt like it.

The sacrifice--Ms. Aya Fujimiya--and Schuldig felt the grin stretching across his face. The laugh bubbling up in his chest and he straightened up--some things were too fucking good to be true.

_I thought you'd like that_, Crawford said and looked at him, twitch to his eyebrows. "Your _love mouse_ is going to be bringing you dinner."

"Mausi," he said and switched to English for the damn arrogant American. "It's _little_ mouse, Crawford." Without any amount of thought into why he bothered correcting it. Felt the way Crawford's mind disregarded his correction because it simply didn't matter. All the years in Rosenkreuz weren't going to convince Crawford German was worth speaking and therefore not hardly worth translating into English correctly.

Omi. Schuldig frowned at that, at Omi coming back when he'd left in such a flurry of thought the other day. His programing and his instincts screaming to get the hell out because the thing he was sharing space with was exactly what it always had been. And because there was that name on the screen, an echo of the life that Omi was waiting to come back and wouldn't he be just happy to know that Schuldig was about to give it to him--his ticket back to Kritiker's soft embracing folds. "Anything worth eating?"

"Have you ever heard of a Nintendo?" Crawford asked dryly. He was waiting for Schuldig to leave because he clearly deserved to go out and get laid himself. He smiled at the blank look that Schuldig was giving him and stood up. "Its just as well, if you'd won any of the games you would miss out on the sex."

Schuldig cocked up an eyebrow on that one and took a drink--of course, losing games theoretically was one thing. Sitting on the floor of his living room watching Omi beat him _again_--that was another thing entirely. Omi had come back like it was purely a scouting mission, to check and see how the weather was or something and when it turned out that Schuldig was almost normal again (whatever normal was supposed to be anyway) he'd stayed and made dinner and produced some kind of box thing from his bag that turned out to be the Nintendo. The _Super_ Nintendo, as it was clearly superior to whatever the original game box thing was. He'd agreed to it under the pretense that there wasn't much of anything else for them to do, bum shoulder and all.

(Crawford said if you lose enough you'd get laid.) That was questionable logic at the moment, what with the gleeful way that Omi effortlessly defeated him again--what the hell was this game called again? Mortal something?--considering he could get laid any damn time of the day. Sitting on the floor hitting buttons he didn't quite know the function of and watching the badly dressed thing on the screen that was him getting its ass kicked--it had better be damn good sex he was going to get.

Since he just lost again. Dead on the ground while Omi's thing did its little victory dance and Omi gave a wiggle and looked over at him with a grin. Must be nice winning every time. (Yes, lets pretend like you don't know exactly how that feels.) Schuldig just rolled his eyes and frowned down at the controller. (You could just cheat, its all there in the mouse's brain.) He could. A sympathetic kind of look on Omi's face. "I like you better when you're not perfect."

(Well, isn't that just adorable.) Schuldig just glared back over at him. The nicer glare, since Omi wasn't entirely convinced that Schuldig was the right sort of company to be keeping. (That'll teach you for coming home half-high, won't it.) And then he looked back at the TV screen with a sort of smile and flipped through the screens until the fight started over again. His mind kind of settled into a low hum, it was like meditation and wasn't. It was simply that the part of him that was all himself was busy over there and that left Kritiker's pretty programming set on low hum. This game was no threat, there was no threat--time to clean house, inspect the wiring...what a self-sufficient little program.

Schuldig pressed the buttons at random, figured that he couldn't do any worse than he already had and watched Omi's mind working over itself, looking out for those spots where it was weaker and found a few of those pinpoint holes that could be tore open a little wider--considered it. Omi deserved a fighting chance, anyway, what with the world descending into chaos in a matter of weeks.

Then he lost again, felt the jolt in Omi's mind. Schuldig frowned at the controller in his hand and threw it at the Super Nintendo. "I think you have an unfair advantage," Schuldig announced.

Smile that could have been a smirk with a little more effort and Omi settled his hands in his lap, fingers still poised over those keys for no good reason. Apparently this gaming thing was a long standing habit of his. "Fair enough. How do you propose we level the playing field?" And then again, he looked at the controller that was upside down and half under the TV stand. "And by the way--don't throw my controllers." The smug was gone long enough to assure him bad things came to those who abused the Super Nintendo.

Schuldig leaned back, weight to the one side to keep his other shoulder from starting to hurt too bad and one of his legs bent and kind of hanging open. Considered this playing field thing and wondered when he was actually going to get laid. He'd lost enough games. (And weren't Crawford's delightful nonspecifics just helpful?) "I propose you come over here," Schuldig said.

Omi gave a little smirk, fingered the controller a little like he was really going to protest. (And how could he when you're so cute pouting.) No that wasn't it, Omi set the controller down and crawled over, one hand grabbing the couch behind Schuldig to hold himself up, leg coming up and across and then he settled into his lap. (Too far away though.) "Better?" Eyes flicking over to his right shoulder with a cautious kind of glance. He didn't want to hurt that, still looked raw and painful.

"No," Schuldig informed him. He shook the hair back over his shoulders and figured that it was pointless to even try, it was falling forward around his face again. (Yes, well, think of all the people you've mind fucked into the exact knowledge of how to cut it like that...) He was going to miss that when the world descended into chaos. Never would be able to find a decent hairdresser again.

Omi scooted forward, knees across carpet and settling so much closer and better and leaned in too. Smile, somewhere lost under the long sleeve of his shirt the muscle in his arm was showing. All wiry and thin, Schuldig wrapped his hand around Omi's elbow, almost felt it and licked his lips, smiling back into the look he was getting. And kissed. (Still isn't entirely sure about you.) Yes, well, the first time they did this was against a wall and Omi got over that then.

Instinct told him to be a good boy and keep his hands to himself so he rested his other hand on Omi's hip instead of in his hair. Because the notion of it was nice, fist in his hair, tipping his head, leaning forward, changing this unsure half sweet little kiss into something else entirely and yet--he rested his hand on Omi's waist instead, fingers dipping under the shirts and finding skin. Just resting there, thumb against his belly to feel the way it pulled in and the little bit of breath around the kiss. Hand, palm, no fingers, down against his arm--right arm, no couldn't touch there, that hand went back on the couch, the other one came up, opposite side, same touch, smoothing down and getting a grip, scooting closer and kissing harder. Broke apart with a smacking sound and the word like a pant against his mouth. "Now?"

Well, all except he couldn't see Omi, couldn't feel most of him under the two shirts and why the hell did he have to wear two shirts? (Why the hell do you have to wear the green jacket all the damn time.) Because, unlike the shirts that hung too loosely and bulky on Omi and hid all of his better attributes, his jacket made him look good. (Of course.) He dropped his hands down, grabbed the shirts by the hem and pulled them up. Stuttered little reaction time there, Omi leaning back, arms up and then down to pull free of the shirt. Schuldig dropped the stupid things somewhere else and ran his hands down Omi's chest, kind of liked that (gonna miss that when the world goes crazy too?) over his ribs, scars and down, around his waist and stopped there for a second. "If I grab your ass am I going to get stabbed?"

"Schuldig," Very seriously. Maybe it should have been very obvious. "If I carried my shuriken without sheathes, I'd be stabbing _myself_ constantly." But why, he was asking himself, was he even _trying_ to apply logic. Stared and then sighed. "The answer to your question is: no."

Someone really ought to have taught the boy how to play, all this seriousness was going to get him killed before he made it out of his teens. (Right, because neither his association to you or his profession will do that first.) Schuldig pouted and dropped his hands down to the floor. "Now I don't want to."

Omi laughed, tried not to at first, holding it back except that first one that must have gotten out without his permission because he checked Schuldig's face for signs of murder before he started really laughing. It wasn't exactly funny and Omi figured that it was--winning all those games must have gone to his head or something. He let him laugh and picked at the carpet under his hands idly, trying to figure out exactly what he was supposed to being getting out of all that losing he'd just done. (Figured, in absence of a golf club or a half open can of peaches, there wasn't much more losing he could be doing.) There, a kiss, an apology for laughing at him and making him pout like that again. Even if it were cute (see there, your Mom was right about something, you can be cute when it serves your purpose). "Ok, then. Be that way." Amused. Omi scooting closer again, tipping his head and kissing him, like he had been before. Like the gateway to better things.

That was, of course, if Schuldig stopped petting the carpet and put his hands to better use. He let Omi worry about it. Not that he was worrying about it, not even a little bit, smug kind of not thoughts because they'd already proven that even if it weren't a great idea neither of them were exactly jumping at the chance to put a stop to this--and Omi was warm anyway. Warm and half naked and petting his collarbone now. (Because its not your shoulder, of course.) Schuldig let out a sigh through his nose and brought his hands over: knees first. Short kid, there wasn't much of a walk between his knees and his hips. Working his way up and trying to remember exactly where all of the shuriken were hidden. They needed to go. So where did he hide them? Waistband. Pockets. He found the one just around his side, fingers closing around the sheath and tugging it free, dropped it to the side. And then ran his fingers along until he found the next set, and the next, down and in his pockets, another one and another one and a half breathed laugh into the kiss.

Distracted but determined, Omi tipping his head and lifting up on his knees, oh and there was another one. Schuldig ran his palms up the back of his thighs, didn't feel anything, nothing around that sweet curve of his ass either, and he brought his hand up, let his fingers tangle in the dampness of Omi's hair and kissed him harder. No distraction, just the kiss, just long enough to feel his weight shift and his mind start to hum and then--

Grabbed his ass. Rough and got something just about a squeak, oomph, nearly knocked their teeth together and barely missed busting his lip with Omi's face. Then the laughing started, Omi just about cackling at him. Some half thought or another, too faint to catch but he knew the way it felt, he'd felt it in other minds and it was... (No, not hardly.) "You missed one," Omi informed him, all smiles and shifting, leaning close, all that muscle in his chest and arms getting tighter, ropey and Schuldig looked back at his eyes, felt the grin going across his face and lifted his eyebrow to convey his interest in this fact. "Better keep looking."

(In your language that means 'fuck me into the floor,' roughly translated.)

Schuldig pushed him back then, following after him. The sound of elbows and hands and knees hitting the ground muffled by the carpet, Omi relaxing back into the carpet as he leaned over him. Kissing him the way he should have done before, felt the fingers in his hair, brushing it back away from his face, (hair just didn't taste as good as it looked) and brushing up against him just to get the room to spread his legs, settling again. Schuldig licked his lips and pressed another kiss to his lips, then gone, his cheek and his jaw, up by his ear and his neck, down to the hollow of his throat and his collarbone and then tipped his face down. Fingers getting his pants unbuttoned, pushing them down--damn boxers in the way--caught them with his thumbs and pushed them down. Slim hips lifting up, short legs pulling free and he tossed the whole mess over his shoulder. (Watch that shoulder...) Pressed his palms against Omi's thighs, just above the knee, slipped them up and around his ass, squeeze and Omi's breathed out laugh, back down to the hollows of his knee and up, dragging up the inside where the skin was the softest, made him shiver. All the way up and over, out, grabbed his hips and dragged him down.

"Got 'em," he said, like there was any need to keep up the pretense. Omi gave him some kind of smile for being such an efficient boy. And Schuldig kissed him again, weight on his elbow, hand going under his back, around his shoulder and Omi was holding onto his ribs, kissing back and complaining about how he was the only naked one. Working around to doing something about that, really. Schuldig figured waiting would be good for him, built character and all that. Rocked his hips down against him anyway, nothing but thin pants between them. Free hand going down Omi's side, ribs, that scar there at the bottom, felt smooth and he ran his fingernail across it, liked that one and for no good reason. Coming back up and back down, mindless pattern in time with the grind. Omi tipping his head back just long enough to breath, reaching down his back, trying to push his pants down, wasn't working, damn buttons and all the same, trailing his fingers around his side and between them.

His head cocked to one side and looking down. Licked his lips--red, pink, pretty damn colors under the right circumstances. This one was good, the blush, the red lips and he waited, helped out a little before he got bored with that and bent his head, mouth down on Omi's neck and kissing, nipping at the taste and Omi cursed at him for being damn distracting--maybe--fought with his pants until they moved and then congratulated himself with more kissing.

Fingers in his hair and he had started to almost like that. Different, almost nobody touched his hair (and why is that?) but Omi didn't seem to care about that. Warm skin, flushed with heat and hard body that was pushing up against his. Wanting and asking for it with no uncertain amount of shamelessness. Didn't even need to feel the mind behind it to know--breathed out as he pulled back, looking over, where was the damn table? Looked the wrong way, found the coffee table on the left and reached under it to get the lube.

Didn't even have to hunt for it this time. (Benefits of knowing it was coming, surely.) Pop open cap because he figured he wouldn't care for wasting time unscrewing the damn thing. Dripping down the back of his hand as Omi stared at him, something like a kind of grin, fingers reaching out to touch him anywhere he could reach, going for his shoulder and changing direction, ribs instead. Chest, spending time tracing lines there; Schuldig pressed his fingers against him, spreading the oil until Omi was shifting around, biting his lip and not too pleased about this need for teasing. Pushed them in, tight grip of his body, warm and just short of rubbing where it felt best.

Omi had big eyes, the kind that people mistook for innocence and trusted without giving a second thought as to why. (Well some people.) Blue too, pretty color, he could get away with murder (and did quite frequently) and there again: that look should have looked strange on his face. Eyes half-closed and pink cheeks and he was about to tell him exactly what kind of bastard he really was. Schuldig kissed him instead, playful and hard and shutting him up, pressing in deeper and rubbing. Felt the body under him arch up, the mewl and the stuttered out breath as the fingers grabbed at his shoulders. And then didn't; couldn't grab his shoulder like that, going to tear the stitches or make it bleed, hurt, something--

A dozen little seconds, drifting along, Omi kissing back and telling him exactly how he wanted it. Fascinating, even without the mental soundtrack to back it up, and he pulled his fingers free, hand up on his thigh and pushing his leg open farther. Grinding down against him but that was all and it wasn't enough and why the hell was he teasing anyway. Hands in his hair again because the shoulders were off limits. Omi's mouth against his ear, all damp breath and wet lips. "Fuck me," like every dirty thought he'd ever had. "Now."

"Sure thing, boss," like sarcasm was really needed. Schuldig grabbed him by the arms and shoved him down, heard his body hit and watched his face. Tipped his head to one side and grinned at him. Lube, cap, (brief consideration to that nice lady that comes and scrubs this kind of thing out of the carpet) and Omi's hand up on his left wrist where he was holding him down. Lost eye contact, just half a second, free hand pushing Omi's leg up farther and then down, shifting on his knees and just against him and then up again--watching Omi's face, his lips, eyes-- Rocking his hips forward; flutter of eye lids, shiver of his mouth as his head fell back, little groan rattling in his chest.

Schuldig kissed his throat, sucked on it and felt Omi's hand on his back. Nowhere specific, wasn't even sure where, and pulling at him. So he reached back, blind, caught his hand, threaded his fingers through and shoved it down against the floor. Half a second to wonder at that and then the thought was lost. Better things to worry about--mind sliding in that same motion, rocking and getting slippery, wet--Schuldig grinned at him and couldn't explain why, bent his head down and kissed him. (Yes, about that...) Hungry little noises against his mouth, didn't know exactly where they came from, didn't care, pushing his hips forward a little faster, deeper. Knees up on his ribs and tight, hard knots there digging in. The fingers around his were gripping hard enough to leave marks and Omi was moving back against him.

(Just can't hold him down.) No, not unless you were Kritiker.

Hand slipped, too wet, sweat and movement, hit the carpet and Omi's arm was free, he got it up, under Schuldig's chest and around, the back of his neck, buried in his hair, pulling and tugging and twisting it. Had to breath and lost the kiss, got a dozen more in return, nips and licks and then nothing, Omi shaking his head. Hair sticking to his forehead, muttering something that was too low to hear and losing all the well tended corners of his self control.

Fuck. (Yes.)

Leaning back then, hand off Omi's, shaking his head to get the fist out of his hair, dragging his palms down Omi's side, rough grip, pink marks in his wake and curling around his hips, pulling him back into every thrust and watching the arch of his back, his neck, heavy swallow and crazy pulse--he was--(Fuck.) Yes. Watched his arm go over his head, trying to get purchase on the carpet, pushing back, shameless little noises with every move and rhythmic sway of his mind--

Close, close and Omi's hand down, wrapping around and almost violent jerks of his hand. Biting his lip, eyes closed and almost shiny as sweaty as he was. Tight belly--shiver, staring to shake. Schuldig moving again, (too close, shame its almost over) hands under Omi's knees and slipping down, elbows, leaning down again. Frantic, messy, pointless kiss like their mouths just rubbing or crashing together when they lined up right. Faster and harder and Omi's hand on him now. Up around his shoulders, hanging on tighter so he was all but off the ground and--

(Beautiful.)

* * *

Sweat hadn't even cooled yet. He could feel it damp in the hair at his temples, in the curve of his neck and the small of his back and sticky in the space between his cheek and Schuldig's chest. And that was a strange place to be recovering--but the couch was close and the bed wasn't and the couch, although close, wasn't terribly wide. So.

The blanket fell at a strange angle across his back, almost diagonal and onto the floor, and one arm was limp and dangling with it, knuckles brushing the carpet; other arm bent at the elbow, palm resting on the skin just over his head. Schuldig had one hand over his eyes and the other arm almost straight in the air, half-leaned against the back of the couch.

Their legs were kind of tangled, but neither bothered to do anything about that. Or straighten the blanket. Sweat hadn't even cooled yet.

Omi thought he might have said something in there--wasn't exactly sure about what words had come out of his mouth, wasn't exactly sure about what the thought was behind it. Didn't seem to matter, now, when his back was chafing red from the carpet and his body was sore and stretched and Schuldig's shoulder was probably hurting like a bitch about now. Didn't seem to matter, but--

It had been something ridiculous, too. Completely ridiculous thought and the words that slipped right along with it. Maybe Schuldig didn't notice--if he had, Omi would hear about it later. Repeatedly.

For now, he let out a long breath and didn't bother opening his eyes. "So, there was this German to Japanese dictionary on your bookshelf."

Schuldig shifted beneath him, just slightly. Resettling his legs and his knee rubbed against Omi's thigh. "There was?" Puff of breath, unconcerned in this statement of doubt. Why would he have something like that, anyway--when it made perfect sense, of course.

"Mm." Half a hum for the shift and the accidental touch, and an affirmative. Too sated and sore to not multi-task in vocalization. "What, you don't know your own books?"

"They're not mine. They're just there to look normal." Schuldig shifted again, upper body this time and Omi moved with him, opened his eyes and tilted his head just enough to look up, saw him reaching for his shoulder. Yeah, he'd be regretting that--it might need to be redressed, could probably use some ice. Hopefully he didn't rip any stitches. "You want to know about my name?"

"That's just it, right?" Murmured it, still too worn to speak any louder. Omi rolled his shoulders, turned his head upright and rested his chin on his hand, staring up the plane of Schuldig's chest to see his face. "It's not a name, not a proper one, anyway. It's a word."

"It's my name, more than the rest of them."

Omi shivered, just a little. Might have been Schuldig's knee against his thigh again, might have been the chill in the apartment, but maybe he just knew exactly what that meant. Wanted to ask why--because there had to be a reason someone called themselves 'guilty' on purpose and why that was a better representation than anything else. Particularly for a person who never appeared to feel bad about anything. Ever.

There was a story behind that. Omi wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know it.

"My birthday," he murmured instead by some way of explanation, "is February 29, 1981."

Schuldig made a noise of derision--kind of a half-chuckle, half-snort. Maybe both in succession, presumably at how clever he thought that was.

"Wasn't my idea." Omi turned his face back down, nose pressed against skin and inhaling. Resettling there on his impromptu pillow and closing his eyes again. "You'd be surprised how often it never even occurs to people, though." Ken, in particular, had never quite got the joke.

Smelled nice--(and it's never been like this before, has it?) Quiet afterwards, yes. Conversation sometimes. Sleep sometimes. Never this close, and it shouldn't feel as good as it did. Shouldn't like the warmth and the smell and the stick of sweat between skin, almost cool now but still a bit tacky. Shouldn't want to stay here, like this.

Did, though.

(_How do you do this to me?_ That's what the thought was, the words, right there in the middle when it tipped out and you lost your mind, because he's just so good at making that happen. Perfect thought, just right for a cheesy romance or a BL manga, wrapped up in rice paper and blue ribbon tied just _so_.)

Schuldig's fingers slid into his hair, just through his bangs at first, pulling them back from his forehead--sweat damp still so they stuck up at angles when the hand slipped lower. Light tug. Slow pet. Just for a moment, and for a moment everything kind of dissolved.

Liked it, this body and this smell and that hand, this skin touching him. Wanted it. Liked the voice sometimes, even, liked the mind behind the voice most days, liked figuring out all the little hydra-puzzles. Liked it when he sulked. Even liked when he was always two steps ahead because every once in a while Omi would catch up--and then something would spark and click into place.

(You're in trouble, Tsukiyono.)

The hand left his hair--one last, slow stroke and then pulled away, probably back to cradle the injured shoulder. Omi made a murmuring sound, something appreciative even while trying to dismiss that whole moment. It wasn't going away. It wasn't, so he pushed himself up, settling his knees against the cushions and crawling up enough to hover over Schuldig's face. Quick, soft kiss. "I'll get you some ice."

Schuldig's hand on his elbow stopped him. "What's your theory?" And his mouth was tugging up in amusement, eyes just a bit narrow and glittering the way they did when he was about to outsmart someone. Two steps ahead and no way to catch up. "About my name."

Omi licked his lips and paused there, elbows against the pillow under Schuldig's head, careful not to catch his hair. How the hell did someone answer that, anyway--when the one offering the query already knew you were wrong.

Maybe, he thought, you call yourself 'guilty' so that everyone else knows it, too. You're egotistical that way.

He laughed--not teasing the way Omi had laughed at him earlier, him and his pout and his fear of shuriken hidden in Omi's clothes. It was appreciative, deep and long. "You're only the second person to think of it that way." Murmured words and the sound was close enough to brush against his lips.

Omi noted, aside from the comfortable sensation of lying there with the laugh rumbling against his chest and his chin settling on one hand, staring down at Schuldig and the feel of breath against his mouth--that this didn't necessarily mean he was _right_. And when the laugh was gone and Schuldig was just lying and staring up at him, shift of his shoulder for comfort, the expression changed. It was... strange and thoughtful and completely unlike anything else, the tease or the smirk or the pout or--

Something approaching unsettled.

Omi wanted to kiss him and that whole idea was stupid. Because they only kissed when it was bracketing sex and because the urge to do that had something to do with reassurance and that entire concept when coupled with Schuldig just did not compute. The entire concept of _unsettled_ when coupled with Schuldig did not compute.

(Then again, the idea of _you_ coupled with Schuldig--)

"There's not enough time for regret when you could die at any second," Omi said, licking his lips slowly, because that was the more serious answer to the question. Or his opinion on the subject, anyway, occasionally hypocritical though it may be. There were a few things worth regretting.

Leaned in and kissed him anyway. Soft, broke with a low smack and hovered there a breath of space away. "I'll get you some ice," murmured there, then pushed himself up again.

The room was cold--it was always fucking cold, that was why he'd found a spare blanket to leave on the couch. Let that blanket fall away and crawled up, shivered and yanked his boxers back on and walked to the kitchen, sweat-cooled skin breaking into goosebumps. Schuldig climbed to his feet somewhere behind him and appeared in the kitchen just as Omi was pulling a tray out of the freezer. Pants back on, leaning against the counter and staring.

No expression, really, just staring--he could almost feel things moving around in his head, though Schuldig might not be doing anything like that. There was no way to tell if he wasn't echoing or responding to thoughts.

Omi was just starting to twist the tray over the sink when he said abruptly, "If your precious Kritiker told you to kill Ken, would you?"

The tray cracked and jumped out of his hands, a shower of ice and plastic crashing in a metal hail in the bowl of the stainless-steel sink. His hands landed on either side, wrapped carefully around the edges because they were shaking too hard and no one else needed to see that. He knew the answer without even having to think about it.

"Yes."

Silence behind him while he pulled himself together, grabbing a hand towel and picking the ice cubes out of the sink, piling them up and focused on the way they clacked and re-froze together. Why would he ask that, anyway--maybe just to see the reaction. Maybe it had something to do with the conversation they'd been having. Didn't want to find out right now.

"The name's unimportant," Schuldig said without any kind of consideration for whether or not Omi wanted to know, but his voice was soft. "And Teufel just sounds stupid."

Omi smiled a little at his hands, shoulders relaxing just a bit--because that did sound kind of odd. Had a hard time wrapping Japanese syllables around that. He hummed something like acknowledgment, twisting the ice up in the towel.

"As for Ken--you only know what they told you that you know. And absolute obedience is hard to command." Could hear the smirk in Schuldig's voice, right there--twist to the words like maybe he'd tried it before and knew just how wrong that could go. "Harder to maintain. Even for the best of us." Schuldig being among that number, of course, and his voice was a little bit closer now. "Minds adapt, change. Barbed wire gets rusty, weak--it'll break." Hands settled on his hips, not pulling or pushing or turning but just existing warmly. Schuldig's presence at his back, close enough his hair brushed a little against his shoulder. "If you want it enough."

He did want it--in the tiny little part of his mind that he was allowed to want it, he did. And that might have been more leeway than he'd ever had before.

There were a few thoughts; random, ridiculous thoughts that he shoved aside and simply turned around. Felt Schuldig's hands resettle on the edge of the counter behind him. Omi leaned back against it, reached up to set the ice pack carefully in place against the white bandages. Held it there for a minute and shoved all those thoughts away again, staring up at him. "You should get some rest, or it'll never heal."

And in response, just a hint of a smirk.

(You're in a lot of trouble, Tsukiyono.) Yeah, well.

* * *

There were two courses of action for every history Crawford saw. It was a puzzle, more or less, trying to figure out if you should accept the future or fight against it. Some paths could not be altered no matter what effort you put into it, some could be delayed and other ones were only nebulous what-ifs and could-bes waiting for someone to step in and make a decision. Their precious sacrifice being taken from her dearly psychotic older brother by Masafumi's idiots—that was preventable. But in doing so they would alert Estet to the knowledge they had regarding that girl's importance and why bother to do that? There were things left to do, time before they could proceed forth. The longer Estet had before the ceremony the more opportunity they had to figure something out. Aya was kidnapped and her dearly psychotic older brother was on his way back to Weiss while Omi slept.

Omi. Crawford had offered the information regarding his departure with a sour twist of his lips, distaste for having to bother. "Your love mouse is leaving, tomorrow, 8:51 AM." With some kind of hope in his mouth that with the stupid short Japanese assassin gone Schuldig would return to normal operating procedures. Schuldig had shrugged and looked at Crawford's watch and wondered how much longer Pelagatti was going to be in the bathroom—stupid bastard.

But that was yesterday when the inevitable path wasn't three minutes from happening. Three minutes to—(what did it matter when the world's going to hell anyway?) It didn't. Omi was just as fucked whether he was here or not. (Fucked but not well fucked, important distinction, surely.) There he was sighing into the air as he woke up, fingers up and rubbing the hair away from his face, looking over toward him with something like a smile on his face.

(And love in his head, how the hell did that happen?) Most emotions had flavors, most emotions were pointless and troublesome and only useful because they could twist reason any which way they wanted. (Like giving you enough reason to chisel away at that programming in his head? How sweet.) The kid deserved a chance—but love. Love felt like something, it didn't taste like anything. He'd felt it before, felt the perversion of it, felt the hideous thing it twisted into and he'd laughed himself sick over it plenty of times. But never, not since before he could clearly remember, had anyone loved him.

Omi loved him. (How sweet.)

Two minutes. The world was going to chaos, Omi was going back to his masters like a lap dog and given the chance, Crawford would kill him as soon as he could. (Because Crawford can't kill you—the love mouse, that's another story. That bitch can die just fine.) Nagi would do it, probably enjoy it. Omi would understand it somehow, his mind would wrap around the idea, accept that it was what you got for fraternizing with the enemy. Aesop's snake story. But the smile on his face as he opened his eyes and the pink drag of his tongue across his lips.

(It's poisoning.) He knew that; he just didn't care to get away from the source. (Because it's nice and sweet and tingles like sunshine and orgasms?)

He leaned forward, hand on the blanket covering Omi's chest and kissed him. Wondered at the way Omi didn't object, didn't demand to know what he was doing or—and scooted closer, moved his hand down, to his wrist, felt his pulse and the way he reacted. The hand in his hair and the tip of his head. Murmur somewhere in there that could have been hello or good morning or his name. (Poisoning.) The seconds bled away like that, with Omi warm against him. His hand slipping down and his fingers going through Schuldig's.

And his mind, where nobody but him saw, where Omi didn't even see it fully: (Poison.) Love.

8:51, he pulled back and stared down at him. Hand out of his and up, brushing the hair back away from his face, thumb lingering on his forehead. He pressed a kiss there at the top of his nose. "Fuck Kritiker," he mumbled in German. 8:51, ten seconds and the phone rang as he pushed himself up. Stood on the bed in time with Omi's mind realizing, reacting, going for his phone. Stepped off when he flipped it open to answer it.

Stood at the closet door, thinking about shirts when he heard that quiet little: "Yes." Settled on deciding later about the time of the: "Understood." Schuldig didn't look at him, didn't see the point in making it harder than it had to be because it would just get him stabbed. He left the room about the time Omi was on his knees grabbing his socks out from under the bed, listened to his mind going blank, reacting to instinct, going around and gathering up everything he'd ever brought over to the house.

Leave nothing behind.

Schuldig picked up his toothbrush and turned on the sink. Stood there and brushed his teeth while Omi retrieved his manga and stuffed it into his bag, the stupid game and controllers and then to the door, his shoes. And it would have been just as nice to have him pause in that doorway and look back but he didn't.

He smirked around the toothbrush, swept his hair back away from his face and spit into the sink. Rinsed the toothbrush and then dropped it. Wiped his mouth with the towel hanging over the bar and dropped that into the sink too, shook his hair away from his face and watched it fall forward again.

Omi was on the street now, running back to his master.

Schuldig picked up the hairbrush as he walked back toward his bedroom. Combed the rats and tangles out until it was smooth and dropped the brush where he stood. Contemplated shirts and pants, ended up staring at the bed and contemplated burning the whole damn building down.

(And then it'd be like it never happened.) But it had.


	6. Read My Mind

**Read My Mind**

Birman was sitting in his room when he opened the door. On the desk chair, legs crossed in a parody of daintiness, one stiletto heel tapping a slow clock-like rhythm on the floor, perfectly manicured fingernails tapping against her knee in time. Perfect in form and dress and grooming, not one hair out of place, and perfectly out of place in an eighteen-year-old assassin's one-room apartment over a flower shop, all his possessions from his previous residence already boxed and returned to sit in piles around the floor; Kritiker's rapid relocation of Omi's life without his knowledge, a quick and clean getaway.

Her smile was prim and deadly. "Bombay."

"Birman." Omi pushed the door closed with his heel and walked the rest of the way into the room, like her presence wasn't so much unwanted as merely a surprise. Set the backpack and the shoulder bag down in a corner without much care, because feigning unimportance would keep her from wondering. Too much prodding would probably reveal some rumpled clothing that smelled rather like sex. He noted the laptop, already turned on and whirring away happily on his desk. Ken's letter stuck beneath it as though the old apartment had merely been transplanted here. A careful, practiced flick of the tablecloth and all the dishes remained in place on the table. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

His own smile was flowers and sunshine, equally as deadly but opaquely so. Some flowers were poison and some had thorns; sunlight would give you cancer over a long enough period of time.

Birman's fingernails stopped tapping and flattened over her nylons, slow, thoughtful pat. "Let's call it motherly concern."

You're not Manx, Omi thought, and had to remind himself that he was no longer in the presence of someone who could hear it. Just as well--if Birman could hear his thoughts he'd be in restraints on his way back to headquarters by now. Death or reprogramming, one way or the other.

(It would be different with Manx, though. She wouldn't have you on the ground with one of those stilettos digging into your spine--she'd stare, and her eyes would go sad, and she'd pick up her gun and tell you to move.)

Omi opened a box, idly, shuffling through the contents with disinterest. "That's very kind of you."

"There's been some interest." She lifted her hand, brushing one perfect lock of hair behind her ear while uncrossing her legs, recrossing in one smooth movement with a whisk of nylon against fabric. "You've been out of contact for weeks, and you weren't staying at your apartment." Shell-pink lips pursed into something like a frown. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Omi?"

He flipped through some of the game cartridges at the bottom of the box--beat them all already. Should find his Playstation, it was in here somewhere. "I was bored." That much was true enough; he watched Birman sideways, through the fall of bangs over his eyes and wondered if that was the whole story. How much she knew and how much she suspected. "I went to stay with a friend."

Strange thing, applying that word to Schuldig. He wasn't a friend, he was--no, not that, either. Something else.

Birman's eyebrows rose into two perfect arches, product of careful grooming and schooled in just the right expression. "Oh, I see. We didn't realize you might be... _lonely_."

Of course not--he was programmed not to be. To go to ground and sit there and wait until Kritiker whistled and called him back.

"Humans are social creatures," Omi commented smoothly, pressing the cardboard closed and stepping back, hands in his pockets and turning to face her. She had the information she wanted, now, knew that something was up and that yes, he'd worked around some of the more basic compulsions and furthermore, and most importantly--no, he was not going to say anything further. "You'll have to excuse me, now. I need to unpack my room, and the others will be here soon."

She made a sound--soft, sweet hum that might have been pleasant if he didn't know better, if he hadn't spent most of the memorable portion of his life somewhere in her presence. Her heels clacked against the floor when she stood. "Well, then. Wouldn't want for you to be unpresentable, Bombay."

Tap, tap, tap across the floor, perfect swing of legs and whisk of nylon, perfect whiff of jasmine in her wake. Omi associated it with blood and cold steel. He remained in place when the door swung shut, stayed while the tap, tap, tap continued on the landing, then the stairs, then the pavement below.

She bugged his room--he knew it with the instinct that kept him alive. They'd never done that before, never needed to with all the efficient suggestions in his head but maybe now they were wondering, considering the possibility that their barbed wire was failing. That he was growing something that dangerously resembled free will.

He unpacked his room just like he said he would; started a load of laundry in the little washer in the closet. Made his bed and pinned some of his posters back up. Found all the little cameras and ignored them, not so pointedly that they'd know he knew but enough that they might suspect their plan wasn't going to work. The bathroom, when he carried his toothbrush and some towels into it, was the one concession. A show of trust, maybe, that they weren't going to watch him shower. How nice.

(Starting to sound like him.)

It was in the shower, then, that he deflated. Let out the breath he'd been holding since he walked into his room to find Birman there and slid down to sit on the tiles, head on his knees and water beating against his back. It was in the shower that he wondered why Schuldig hadn't even tried to stop him--hadn't said a word, just watched him leave. Knew what would've happened if he'd tried, probably; Omi had just been reactivated and he was an enemy. If he acknowledged Schuldig he'd have to kill him.

Didn't matter, anyway. It didn't; it was inevitable, all of this. Wasn't like he was sitting on the floor of his shower with the water on full blast and slowly curling around himself, arms around his stomach because it was tying itself into knots. Wasn't trembling. Eyes weren't burning. No.

It was just a diversion, that's all.

* * *

Ken was in the kitchen; not that it was any kind of surprise, he had a domestic streak a mile wide and was probably the only one of them whose immediate thought upon returning to the Koneko was to adjourn to the common area and start making dinner. He might even have gone to the market himself--he would have thought about something like that, made a trip of it and arrived at the back door to face Birman smiling over an armload of rice and bok choy and little jars of umeboshi.

The dashi was already starting to simmer on one burner and Ken was heavily involved with the other, pushing a pan full of sizzling chicken and vegetables around with a wooden spatula. Omi peered around him before announcing his presence, hovering in the doorway and eying the spread of ingredients--little jar of curry paste and a bowl of noodles, little pile of scallions chopped and ready on the cutting board because he had to be fancy and 'garnish' stuff like that. Ken's back to him, humming something tuneless under his breath.

"Hey."

"Huh?" Ken paused in his frying pan agitation, peering over his shoulder with a blink before his face dipped into a pleased smile. His eyes crinkled up when he did that. "Oh, hi Omi. Didn't see you there." A bit sheepish, like he knew he should have noticed someone approaching him from behind, what with being an assassin at all, but not really worrying about it because Omi wouldn't scold him. Now, anyway. "How've you been?"

(Crying in the shower.)

"Okay, I guess." He wandered further into the kitchen, leaned backwards against the counter on the side of the stove the dashi was on, nudging the curry paste idly. The glass made a rolling sound on the counter. "Bored. It's kind of nice to be back, isn't it?" Nice for himself, maybe, but he wanted Ken to agree with him, even if it was only to be polite.

Bit of a shrug; Ken was wearing a soccer jersey, something for one of the local teams. Large blocked 8 on the back in yellow. "I guess so." And his attention returned to the food, eyebrows drawing together as he determined whether the chicken was done enough for his liking. Reached out to flip the burner dial to 'off'. "I kinda missed you guys. Where've you been lately?" Brown eyes darted to the side, to Omi lifting the little jar and tossing it absently from hand to hand. Nothing accusatory in the words or the look; curious, concerned, maybe just a tiny bit hurt. "Your phone's been off a lot."

Hasn't been off, Omi thought, I just haven't been answering. Gave a shrug, unconcerned up and down motion of the shoulders and spun the jar between his fingers. "I've been out a lot. Got your card, though." Paused and diverted his attention just long enough for a smile, sincerity in droves to hide the lie. "Thanks."

"No problem. Congratulations, by the way." And smiling, hand out for the curry paste and oh, Ken. How easily you believe.

Omi didn't say anything for a while, watched him mix in the curry and the starch and the sauté and closed his eyes when the smell filled the room, warm and when he leaned forward to look through the window Youji was in the parking lot out back, hauling some duffel bags out of Seven's trunk. Aya was probably downstairs already, sorting through mission specs or whatever it was that Aya did when he was alone and unhappy with life.

"Oh!" Ken paused with the bowl of noodles in his hand. "Did you get the letter?"

Omi wet his lips, watching Youji walking across the lot, lit cigarette already between his lips, sunglasses awkwardly in his hair (like someone you know, maybe?) but his arms were too full to do anything about them. Paused halfway and looked to the side where Birman was still waiting by the back door, because he'd been the last and he was late and her heels had kept an ominous click against the pavement while she waited.

"Yeah," he murmured, and lost focus just long enough that it sounded distant.

"Omi?" Ken was just out of his line of sight but he could hear his expression in the tone, smile gone and eyebrows drawing down in confusion and he still had that bowl of noodles in his hand, soup simmering away in front of him and waiting for them. "What's up?"

"I meant to call you." He tried for a smile, got the corners of his mouth turned up and figured that was good enough. Now, change the subject. "Youji-kun is here."

Finally tipped the noodles into the pot, plucking away the ones that stuck to the side of the bowl, but Ken didn't look entirely convinced. Frowning a little in thought at the bubbling liquid. "I made enough for four."

"I'll get Aya." Omi made the offer quickly, pushed away from the counter because Youji was going to come through the door any minute and then he wouldn't be able to get away and recollect. Not think about letters or phone calls or sunglasses that held back hair. Aya didn't take much notice of smiles and tones of voice that weren't quite right--and his sister was missing. Aya wouldn't take notice of much of anything.

"Hey." Ken's voice stopped him halfway across the kitchen, half-turned away from the pot, spatula resting lightly on the edge where his hand was tapping it. "You'd tell me if something was bugging you, right?"

Omi was glad he was facing the doorway. Away from him. "Of course." Of course, Ken-kun. I'd tell you anything that wouldn't get us both killed.

* * *

Omi tasted like squid—or octopus. Might be octopus, might be something else, he had no idea. Whatever it was that takoyaki was made out of, that's what Omi tasted like. That and skin, warm, sweat—his mouth was—it wasn't that, it was the way his thigh kept brushing up against his waist. Sitting on his lap like that, made him wonder what they were sitting on and didn't. Thigh, warm and soft and brushing back and forth, restless motion of his hips that matched his mouth and the fingers combing through his hair. Murmurs in his throat that Schuldig could feel under his thumb. Fingers around his neck, feeling the same restless movement and that thigh, up higher, his whole hand slipping in under those shorts.

Most days he loved the shorts and now he hated them, they were in the way. Omi was there and warm and close and rocking against him, one leg curled around his back (what the hell were they sitting on?) and both hands in his hair. Felt good. Pushing the bandanna down off his hair, all the way down. Kissing once, twice, three times—the blond color of his hair, the smile on his lips that were pink and darkening, tongue darting across and faint shimmer of wetness. He was smiling, smiling at him, fingers on his shoulder, in the back of his shirt and up, in his hair, kissing like there hadn't been a pause and—Schuldig rolled them over, ended up on a bed somewhere, all that warmth under him and the same restless movement, the same fingers, the same mind that was humming along with that (poison).

Damn.

"Oh, for fucks sake. Roll over and take your pants off." And something hit his back.

Schuldig didn't open his eyes, in some vain hope that he could get back to the dream. The neutral territory of the non-space it occupied and Omi's mouth that tasted like squid or octopus or— "Go to hell, bitch."

Crawford snorted something derisive and yanked the blankets back. "I was in hell," he was informed from the side. "It involved Omi Tsukiyono's left thigh."

What? Schuldig pushed himself up to his elbows, hair across his face he had to shake behind his shoulders and looked up at Crawford. "What the hell are you doing in my dreams?" Never mind that the demand was completely illogical. Crawford couldn't get into his head, but he could damn well get into Crawford's. Which meant he was projecting the dream which in and of itself was—

"You're still wearing your pants," Crawford said instead. Attempting to come up with an answer was obviously beneath him. Besides there was only one answer and that was the disgusting little truth. Schuldig had lost enough control over his own mind that he was pushing out his own thoughts. He pushed his hand through his hair, felt the tangles that were starting and leaned back onto his side.

"Why the hell would I take my pants off for you?"

"Because you want to get fucked and I want to sleep," Crawford told him. Which explained why the cocky American bastard was standing in what amounted to his room in nothing but whatever pants he'd had close by to throw on and bearing a bottle of anything that would pass for lube. Schuldig couldn't see the label because it was too dark but he trusted enough to know that Crawford was a whole hell of a lot pickier about it than him. "Without the nightmares about your love mouse."

"You better be good," Schuldig mumbled. He fell back on the futon and reached down to push his pants off, hips up to get the low and kicked them off. Crawford picked up the bottle as he crawled onto the bed, right between his legs.

"You know I am," Crawford retorted like there never was a doubt and all those dark circles under his eyes weren't going to have an effect on his abilities at all. Damn impersonal bastard, hand up under his knee pushing it toward his shoulder and sure he was flexible but that didn't mean he wanted to impersonate a pretzel. "Better than the midget."

"There's a remarkable lack of—" Grimace there because Crawford could care less about finesse when it came to sure things. Rough fingers pressing inside and the confident, cocky, arrogant way he leaned over him. The man had forgotten a lot of things since the last time they'd done this. And then again, it was some kind of stupid sense of vengeance for putting them both through this for the sake of some stupid Japanese boy. A stupid fuck that he probably should have killed. "Comparison." Then he reached down, hand grabbing Crawford by the wrist. Moved his leg and brought it up between Crawford's. Pressure that made him stutter that perfect mastery. "I'm not some fucking girl, Crawford. And I'm not exactly begging to be with you either."

Hand down against his thigh to shove his leg back down, then under his knee and shoving it up again. Smirk on that arrogant face, his glasses were gone or he would have found the only light in the room to get a gleam from. It was enough to see the white of his teeth and hear that amused little laugh. "That all you got?"

He hit him and Crawford knew it was coming, always did, didn't let him connect but he did roll onto his back. Dragged Schuldig back on top of him, and grabbed him by the ass as he sat up. "I know you aren't a girl. Not even the stupid ones are this fucking skinny." Dragging him down to grind against him and there was nothing there, not even the memory of the dream in that touch. It was the point, naturally. Crawford was like a bulldozer in a china shop. He lacked any manner of subtlety.

Oh and he could have seen it coming but some things were unavoidable. Schuldig knocked him back fast enough he hit his head on the wall, scooting up farther so he was across his stomach instead of his legs, hands grabbing Crawford's by the wrists and putting them over his head. Oh, all the muscle in the arrogant American fuck, all those hours watching him box and lift weights and listening to the slobbery thoughts of the other pointless jocks staring at him doing not so much as one push-up. His hair falling around his face and getting in his eyes, getting in Crawford's mouth until he was spitting it out and glaring at him. "I don't need you to fuck me, Crawford. Don't overestimate your importance."

"Too tall for your tastes? Maybe you should go nag Nagi, he might fuck you if you promise to suck him off. I keep hearing you're real good at that." There was something nasty and mocking in his mind, something like jealousy that was too real to be funny. It went beyond the accepted way of things that Crawford was Schuldig's and Schuldig was Crawford's it was—

"Nobody fucks me," he said back and sat back. Crawford pulled his hands free, big paws down on his waist and pushing him back until he was where he was wanted again, steady pull and slow rock up against him. Damp and hard grinding against him. He tossed his hair over his shoulders and went looking through Crawford's mind.

Ended up on his back and felt that smirk against his mouth. "I do."

"Once," Schuldig corrected. "And you barely managed that." Legs up and out of the way, no thinking about what it was all going to mean because there was a reason he'd projected the dreams to start with. The world was ending tomorrow there was no reason to get all frigid tonight. Fingers pushing back inside and they weren't any less clinical just not painful.

"Why," the tight question, Crawford shifting on his knees, pushing his leg open and Schuldig tipped his head down, watched him and listened to the chaotic buzz of his head. All the streams of future going past endlessly and nonsensically. Crawford's thoughts were usually coherent but when he got distracted like this— "Do you insist on being on your back?"

"Shut up and fuck me," Schuldig said. A laugh into that space between them and Crawford pushing forward, sinking inside and fuck—_fuck_--Schuldig let his head fall back and grit his teeth, felt the lips against his throat and fisted both his hands in slick black hair. Kissing then that was more violent than the sex was sure to be. Tearing at each other's mouths in a way that left his mouth sore and it didn't matter.

Crawford wanted Omi dead.

"Don't," gasped into his mouth. "Scratch my face."

Because Crawford wanted Omi dead. Wanted him bleeding, wanted him broken into a pile of pointless little pieces that couldn't be put together, his mind in shreds and his memory nothing but a joke. He wanted to destroy it because it was—because—Schuldig clawed at his back, at the thoughts, at the closeness, at the body against his and inside and the kiss that wouldn't stop, at the memories of the life they'd had and what they'd always talked about.

Of Rosenkreuz and _Hyde_ and hell. Of his mother, of his name, of the prophecies and the Elders and Estet and planning the chaos to right the world because it sure as shit wasn't right anymore. Stupid humans walking around acting like they ruled the world and hitting him with a golf club. Fucking assholes.

Sank his teeth into Crawford's shoulder, down into that muscle all but hard enough to draw blood and heard the laugh before he felt it. Hands on his shoulders shoving him down against the bed. Hips coming forward hard, faster, driving inside and it damn near hurt but it didn't.

Significance is what you give it.

Love was an excuse for murder.

People were playthings and puppets and fuck toys.

Crawford kissed him again and Schuldig jerked back against him. Biting at his tongue and his lips until he got bit in return and then laughing because his mouth tasted like blood. Crawford's face against his chest, everything was running on seconds now, wasn't going to last. Too much violence in it, brutal and it was going to hurt as soon as it was over, right now storming beyond what he could control—that close and that tied into Crawford's mind, felt everything. His body, Crawford's, and _everything_, sinking inside of him and—

_There_.

He opened his eyes and looked over, at where Crawford had collapsed next to him. "We're going to fail?"

A nod, sweat in his perfect black hair, flush on his arrogant face. "We're going to fail." He rolled onto his back and brushed his bangs back out of his face. A second for his breath and body to settle, to think back to the projected dream that started it all. "You're ridiculous."

"You're a whore," Schuldig said back.

"At least I'm high priced," the counter as Crawford shifted his weight next to him and began to wonder about where his pants had gone to. If he should take a shower now or sleep and if it mattered either way. Wondering why he hadn't run for the door himself yet. "You're a dime a dip street corner bitch."

Schuldig snorted. "You'll kiss anyone's ass, Crawford. Whether you're getting paid or not."

"You're in love with a fucking midget Japanese boy that's a mindless slave for more stupid Japanese midgets." He wasn't supposed to say anything to that and Crawford didn't give a damn if he did anyway. A mental kind of flinch that was interesting if not terribly pleasant to feel. "Hyde would laugh her ass off at you."

"You killed Hyde," he said because it didn't matter. "He loves me; it doesn't go the other way."

Oh the laugh wasn't funny at all and that seemed to settle it as far as Crawford was concerned. He wasn't going to lay here and accept this line of bullshit when he could be washing himself up. He sat up. "He's going to die, Schuldig."

"Fuck you. No he isn't," Schuldig snapped back.

Another laugh and that one was louder, ruder, more amused and not at all. Hand around the back of his neck, yanking him forward all condescending and arrogant, the fucking American kissing him again, laughing into his mouth and then tipping his head, forehead still slimy with sweat as they pressed together. "Don't be a fucking coward, Schuldig. Admit it. Everyone loves someone. Even dogs." A pause there to punctuate the next thing he said. "And he will die."

Because Crawford wanted him to.

"Get out," Schuldig said.

Another smirk as the bastard got to his feet. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

Crawford's grin was a cruel mockery. "Schuldig," he remarked, looking back at him and catching that spare slant of light. Always that, always the glare across the lenses like any of his ridiculous manipulative tactics had any effect on the man that could stare straight down through his mind to the whimpering little boy he'd been. "You pick all the wrong ones." Mockery, it seemed, of Omi.

"I'm sure you'd have gone for the athletic idiot, right?" Schuldig retorted. He ran an absent hand down the white front of the suit he wished he wasn't wearing and brushed his hair back over his shoulders. "That way he'd give you a night's worth in bed and sit quietly in the corner gasping at how smart you were?"

"Mm," Crawford agreed with some sarcasm as they came for them. The three old ones were dead, Aya was safe from them and now it was going to end. Once and for all—Schwarz simply had to die. The comfort came in that they all fully intended to kill them, and in that when the world broke apart under their feet all of them were still going to be alive. Whatever came next, he didn't know. Crawford didn't know—they hit the water and the future stopped. "I bet he'd ride you cross-eyed and then we could box."

"Don't kid yourself," he said as he shifted on his feet. Speed, coiling it down into all of his muscles, getting ready to move because they were close and coming closer. Nagi was standing to the side, looking as bored as he ever did. His mind was numb and beyond caring—they had let Tot die, you see, and everyone had to die. The whole world. "You can box while he's riding you."

Farfarello laughed and flexed his hand around his knife, his mind slipping down into those blood-scented dark places. Primal, evil, an instrument of pain and death and beyond all the normal patterns of thought; it was a disgusting feeling, to sink that low into him. Schuldig glanced at him, one last time, the scars and the smirk and the insanity that was bubbling up like pus and blood. He gave a half-hearted hope that the man would die when he hit the water, heard Crawford's laugh.

"As interesting as it would be, Hidaka's still got a dick—not interested," Crawford informed him.

Nagi snorted. "All recent evidence to the contrary. Why can't I kill them now?" And while Crawford had spent hours and years training Nagi to look at him first with all the obvious obedience a well taught child should have—Nagi looked at him. His mind following his eyes and waiting for the silent command.

"That wouldn't be sporting," Crawford assured him and shrugged the jacket off his shoulders. "Fujimiya is the one I'd take, Schuldig."

"Fujimiya is a pathetic Momma's boy that needed his daddy to give him a hug," which could very well have been the last thing that he ever said. It moved from there, the fight—Crawford and Aya, Farfarello took off after Ken (he assumed it was a Catholic thing and left them to it) and that left Nagi who stepped forward with a click of his heel. A certain kind of shimmer to his mind which betrayed some thought that he'd been hiding under those layers of hate.

Hate, hate, hate that tasted like beer and wine and coffee burnt black on the bottom. Hate for him and Crawford, hate for Weiss, hate for every mortal that had ever walked on this earth, hate for living, hate for love—hate that sank into his bones and his thoughts. But he was stepping forward, through the fight like the chaos that was building around him was nothing more than a puppet show. Energy churning up under his feet—outside, a block away, people would feel the tremors and wonder—and here, Nagi brought one hand up, threw Farfarello and Ken backward when they nearly ran into him and starting to grin.

Omi (oh, so careful not to see him, not to notice, not to think about those shuriken he's got hidden up his sleeve and how very much he'd like to sink a few into you after all this) saw Nagi. Reacted with all that programming, all that training that had kept him alive and not so much as a whisper of a thought as to whatever else there had been. (But, look to the left, maybe.) Then again, Omi didn't know of the times Nagi had stood outside the door, in the stairwell, in front of his car, waiting for them to finish. He knew nothing about the ridicule he had earned (love mouse) and—

"Son of a bitch," Schuldig said out loud, slipping into German without half realizing it. One step forward that was jerked backward, something around his neck and how the hell had he missed _that_? (Didn't look to the left.) Yes, well and then there was Kudo. Bastard, he never had liked him, the smell of cigarette smoke that always clung to him, and the way his mind slid along on itself. Oh he was a sly enough bastard for the sleazy private eye sort. Drinking away his life and it melted away your mind until it was nothing but too slick thoughts that—didn't matter because there he was with the creak of his gloves, the grimace across his face and some kind of grim satisfaction to his thoughts that he could take him out.

Kidnapper and all that. Rapist, think of what he had done to Sakura and _Aya-chan_ and who the hell had orange hair anyway? His knees were against Schuldig's back to get the leverage to yank his arms back, fingers curling in the wire to pull it tighter; didn't seem to matter, the manic tilt of his slippery fucking mind, there were spots in front of his vision. Hands up and clawing at his own skin just to try to get under the wire and that didn't seem to matter because there was a thunderous crack somewhere in there.

(There goes the world.)

Nagi was smirking, all over himself, inside his brain where the hate twisted up in his stomach. Both of his hands out and pushing forward, taking his time making it slow. Slow as standing in a stairwell peeling paint off the wall because the stupid ass telepath that had once been so reliably three minutes late was too busy getting off in the blond idiot with the too happy smile. (Love mouse.) Oh, Nagi was going to kill him, bone by bone until there was nothing left and he was damn sure going to enjoy it. (And the rest of them, they were going down, down to that water.)

_He's going to die_, Crawford had said.

"Fuck," he spat with breath he didn't have to waste. One elbow back and connecting with something on Kudo's body that got him a grunt and half a second respite from the pain and the breathlessness. He reached out, mental hands and grabbed Nagi, down below the hate that would utterly disregard him, down deep where he couldn't disobey and screamed at him. _Stop_. Echoing in every language he could remember and then he lost it. Kudo didn't take it nicely that he was bothering to fight back, yanking harder and leaning back himself, dragging him off his feet as he grabbed for that wire again. Wasn't going to work, and his neck felt hot already, fingertips bleeding—

(There goes the world.)

There it went, the first crack, and the second and then it fell. Down, down to the water. Somewhere, there, in front of him or beneath him or above, lost in the jumble of all that falling stone, Omi was alive. (That's nice.)

* * *

Omi woke up to the sound of a pulse in his ears--only no, it wasn't a pulse, it was the electric beat of a heart monitor. Woke up to the whiteness of sun through the blinds and the sterility of a hospital room and sat up, head spinning, feeling gauze at his temple and arms and tugging the nodules off his chest. Pulling the IV from his arm. Sliding to the edge of the bed and ripping more wires and tubes away and all the machines started screaming.

The nurses, when they arrived, tried to push him back down and he lashed out because no--it was too open here, too bright, no protection and the weak and wounded should go to ground. Needed security, needed his teammates, needed--

Bright floral arrangement by his bed, on the table, off-white envelope in among the Traveler's Joy and tulips and Omi paused, lifted it away and pulled out the card inside.

_5/13, 7:30PM home_, the note read. _Get some rest_.

He went back to bed.

It wasn't until weeks later--just a couple of weeks, he thought--three days in the hospital, a few more at headquarters while Kritiker pulled their agents back together and decided what to do with them. Another week on the road, getting used to the RV and the close quarters and making sure Aya and Ken didn't kill each other. No mission, yet. They needed time, Manx said, to find their feet.

He had dreams, some nights--they all had dreams, the screaming ones and the cold-sweat ones and the slow, sad ones. Omi had a particular kind, and this new sort wasn't so bad. It was quiet and comfortable and sometimes he didn't even have to fight for the covers. Sometimes there was an arm over his hip and murmured words against the back of his neck. Murmured words in the back of his mind.

It was a nice dream, but somehow it woke him up. He blinked in the darkness, cold knot in the pit of his stomach and stared up to where Ken's arm was dangling from the edge of his bunk, hand limp and curled slightly.

That was the first time he wondered--when was it? The last time he saw Schuldig.

_Youji had wire around his throat--and you didn't watch, couldn't watch, couldn't watch anyway __because Nagi was crushing you to death, and that kind of commanded your attention. Could feel how your body started to give and knew in a moment all your bones were going to crack, splinter. Somewhere to the side that wire was going to go limp and you'd both die together. How romantic._

He didn't, though--because Nagi had stopped right there, right at that last second when the pressure was so great he was screaming at the pain of his body trying to resist it. Right there, he just _stopped_.

And he turned his head, didn't he? Omi squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead, trying to remember. Nagi had turned his head, eyes narrowed and glaring. Looked right at--

_Schuldig told him to stop._

All the hardwiring in his head tried to clamp down when he slid out of bed, silently, but something had jostled loose when the temple came down. Something had ripped, a wire had snapped and if he was careful he could wind those barbs away. Let all those commands and compulsions slide over the surface of his thoughts and away.

Eventually--someday, he thought, he'd wriggle free entirely.

He slipped out the door just as silent, carrying his shoes to put on outside but all that stealth amounted to nothing, ultimately, because Youji was standing outside with a cigarette in his mouth, leaned against the side of the RV. Sunglasses low on his nose and staring up at the blank night sky over the top of them, edges of city lights in every direction. Quick dart of a look over at him, sideways, lifted a hand up to draw the cigarette away. "Hey."

"Nice night." Omi sat down on the steps, tied his shoes and tried to think of anything at all other than what he was doing, right now. Tried to not look Youji in the eye without looking like he was trying to not look Youji in the eye.

"What're you up to?"

"Need some air." Omi shrugged, nonchalant--turned to wander over to where his moped was parked alongside Ken's bike. "I'll be back by morning."

Youji's chuckle was softly knowing, but Omi didn't think he knew the whole or even half of it. "Sure thing."

He waited until he was three blocks away to gun the motor.

The city pulsed softly in the dead of night, still lit as bright as day in places and active with movement and the hum and rumble of vehicles and the rhythmic throb of music. His nerves sang with it, the lights and the beats of time and the need to _go, go, go, get there_ and his pulse thudded in his ears in time with all of it. Had to change tactics, parked the moped and dove into the subway tunnels, took the Yamanote until he was close enough but far enough away to double back. Lost himself in the crowd somewhere in Shibuya.

_Go, go, go, faster_. Stomach fluttered with his pulse.

He approached the apartment building from the far side, dark aside from a single porch light on that end where it flanked an alley and a department store. Fidgeted with the lock for a minute and palmed the picks so it would look like a stuck key from the right angle, security cameras or whatever. Was two flights up the stairs before it occurred to him that maybe Schuldig wasn't there anymore. That he had no reason to stay, really, Takatori was dead and Estet's plans had failed and he could be anywhere by now. China, the States. Germany, even.

Omi's footsteps slowed, ground to a low, trembling halt in front of the door. Pulse not so fast now, butterflies tying his stomach in painful knots, and stared at the doorknob. Schuldig never locked it.

And he'd sped and run and raced all the way here, and now, right at the threshold, he couldn't bring himself to reach up and try the latch. It was too much, knowing and not knowing.

He bit his lip until it bled, just a little; rested his hand on the knob. Felt the cold bite into his skin (Schuldig always kept his apartment cold). Turned.

The door swung open. Air shifted, washed over him. (Smells like--)

Pulse thrummed. Stepped inside. Let the door fall shut behind.

He left his shoes and jacket in the entry, hands shaking too hard to put them in any kind of order and--footsteps in the hall, bare feet on carpet and Schuldig appeared there, in the box of grayish half-light from the city shining through the windows. Hair mussed and rubbing sleep from the corner of one eye. Sweatpants on him and nothing else.

Omi thought, for a minute, that he might give out right there. Collapse in a boneless heap like Nagi really had crushed him into unrecognizable bits. Stood still, though; curled his fingers against his palms to stop the trembling.

"Took you long enough," Schuldig muttered, stopping just at the edge of the half-light, hand dropping from his face with a tired sniff.

_Smiled_.

Something clattered to the floor when he moved; Omi didn't know what it was or if he'd actually knocked it over but it didn't seem to matter, much. Five steps, exactly, soft carpet giving way under his socks. Five steps and his hands on shoulders, fingers tangling in hair, arms pulling him closer, warm body and so familiar, the smell on his skin--

Hot mouth, lips, soft and hard and harder. Murmur somewhere within the kiss, the press and just a little wet. Hint of tongue against his lips.

A shift, then, a turn and his back was against the wall, another shift and Schuldig was tugging him up, legs around his waist (like before, against the refrigerator, remember?) and he could almost hear the thought that went with that. 'You're too short.' Almost laughed into the kiss and sighed instead, just enough press against his hips to feel nice without feeling too much.

Tilted his head back and--_mmm_--kiss deepened, shivering and long and Schuldig's hands were everywhere. At his waist first and up his back, into his hair, down the side of his face, neck to shoulders to bunch the fabric of his shirt then slide beneath--everywhere. Slow and lingering and pressing, just a little (want) and Omi mimicked it, almost. Palms sliding down Schuldig's chest and back up to loop around his neck, comb through his hair and drag him closer.

And something in the back of his mind said, you've got to be kidding me. This can't be right, him touching you like this--like you _mean_ something. But no, Schuldig saved his life. Saved his _life_, and egomaniacal sociopaths just did not do that.

Felt the smile in the kiss, Schuldig's mouth pulling against his and the little hum, breath on his lips in something that wasn't really a laugh. Little tease of teeth before the kiss resumed, deep and slow, press of tongue against his and shiver of fingers down his spine.

_He loves you._

Egomaniacal sociopaths didn't do that, either. But what the hell do you do with all evidence to the contrary?

(You're in a lot of trouble Tsukiyono.) Yes, well, he didn't fucking care anymore.


	7. Where the White Boys Dance

**Where the White Boys Dance**

They picked the club because it was the darkest and noisiest and closest to the center of Shinjuku, obvious enough to be almost obscure and it was really the best place to find each other randomly, or as randomly as it might appear to an outsider. There was no clear pattern to it, nothing for any prying eyes to report on, nothing for his teammates to notice. Oh, Omi went out clubbing for the night, nothing strange or suspicious about that. It was just something he did.

The problem, of course, was actually _meeting_ at all.

That part, unfortunately, was left to chance and whether or not either of them were occupied with work or other obligations, whether or not either of them decided to make the trek out here in the hopes that the other would show up. He'd gone home unfulfilled so far, all told over the last several months, a total of twelve times. He'd kept careful count, and so far his score beat Schuldig's.

Tonight the air was a smoky mess and the multicolored lights over the dance floor illuminated even less than usual. He'd come in a pair of clingy black slacks and a fishnet shirt, long-sleeved, something that had sat in the back of his closet since its unfortunate purchase sometime when he was a first-year--he'd only worn it because he knew Schuldig would actually _like_ it, but at this point he was beginning to regret the decision, as many of the club's other patrons liked it equally as well.

He entertained ideas--briefly, because he was in the usual habit of thinking as loudly as possible, which he had to do anyway to hear his own thoughts over the pulse of earsplitting techno and god knew how Schuldig heard anything in this place, but maybe that was a positive--but he always retreated before any flirtation or suggestion got too serious. Because _that_, that would be--

What? Cheating? To be cheating at all Schuldig would have to be his... something. There was a word for that, but Omi was staunchly disallowing it from forming in his mind because if he did that would mean acknowledgment, and that would mean all this was really serious.

It was during one of these moments--one of these entertainments, willowy boy about an inch taller than him with dark, dark eyes and glitter on his shoulders from the clouds that erupted from the dance floor from time to time, and the way he smiled was pretty and sometimes he'd lean in close to talk in Omi's ear when the music was too loud to hear anything further than an inch away. It was exactly in that moment, actually, that he looked across the tables and saw Schuldig perched at the edge of a booth, elbows on his knees and that smug-fucked smirk on his face, hair pushed up under a black beanie because all that red hair was a bit too noticeable. And he was chatting up some small, cute thing in cat ears curled up on a chair and nodding at him at the appropriate intervals amongst said chatting.

Fuck, he looked good--strip of leather tied around his neck and practically nothing of a collar, all that skin straight down to his chest--but that was beside the point. Omi felt a scowl forming across his face, despite the fact that he himself was all but being necked by a boy with a pretty smile. And he was really closer than necessary, now, one hand on his hip and lips brushing his ear as he spoke. Something about graphic design, he wasn't really paying attention, but he took the thoughts that came with these sensations and amplified them as much as he knew how, and _stared_ across the room to where Schuldig was sitting. Waited for him to notice.

And notice he did, with a casual slowness that informed Omi he was perfectly aware of his presence and what was occurring over by the bar, was unperturbed by it and furthermore--his eyes met Omi's through the haze of smoke, one brow raising slightly. And what that meant was, 'How poor of taste do you really have if you're paying attention to _that_ instead of me?'

Schuldig's attention promptly returned to the cat-eared whateverthefuck--was that a boy or a girl? And the pang of jealousy that shot through Omi's body was probably audible. At least to any telepaths in the vicinity, of which there was at least one.

(But to be cheating, he'd have to be--)

"Sorry." It was probably shorter and more impolite than necessary but Omi's patience was thinner than normal, jealousy clawing at his insides and he did his best not to shove pretty-smile boy away, making it mostly a slip off the barstool and an apologetic pat. "I have to go take care of something."

The guy looked upset, a little hurt, but--he'd find someone else, and Omi had no business flirting that much with him anyway, and all of that was inconsequential, ultimately, because Schuldig had that little boy/girl/cat-thing off the chair and crouched by his knees to listen to whatever he was saying (yeah, right) and he still had that smirk on his face and he had to know Omi was there. That Omi had squirmed away from his admirer and was storming between the tables, half-tripping over a chair to close the distance between them.

The gender-indeterminate cat-thing was wearing a hoodie, which made a perfect handle by which to lift it up and away from Schuldig and his knees and deposit back somewhere further away. Not far away enough, unfortunately, as there was not an ocean nearby, but further away from Schuldig than Omi was would be satisfactory for now.

He thought about it--climbing into Schuldig's lap right there and shoving him back against the booth, kissing hard and fast and grinding in time until he remembered just who he'd come to this club to meet to begin with. Not some stupid kid in a hoodie and cat ears.

(_Mine._)

Schuldig was grinning like an idiot, though, so Omi brought that train of thought to a halt, scowled harder and grabbed Schuldig by the wrist, hauling him out of the booth and away through the crowd, around to the hallway that ran perpendicular to the one leading to the bathrooms--the one that lead to the side exit they snuck through occasionally on nights when the hair on the back of Omi's neck was prickling, when he knew he'd been followed.

It was even darker, back there, but after a minute or so to adjust he could see the outline of Schuldig's face by the light from the exit sign.

Omi folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. "Enjoying yourself?"

Schuldig mimicked his movements, arms crossed over the front of his barely-buttoned shirt and continued grinning, although it was more of the smug-fucked grin than the idiot one he'd been wearing a moment ago. "I am _now_."

The worst part, Omi figured, was that he couldn't really bitch about catching Schuldig in a moment of flirtation with someone else, as he himself had been in the exact same position--or he could, actually, but it would be hypocritical and Schuldig would be quick to point that out. Instead, he chose to bypass any argument that might come of all this and crossed the hall to lean in against him, hands on his elbows and up on tiptoe to press their foreheads together. "You didn't really want that... whatever it was more than me, did you? Because if you did I'd be glad to leave you two alone together. I hear furries are pretty kinky."

"Not really." Schuldig shrugged, a kind of bored tone to his voice. Unruffled, of course. "_He_ just wanted to suck my dick with the ears on." Slight shrug when Omi huffed in response and then lifted a hand to his shoulder, pushing a bit. Not away, just back towards the entry and the smoky lights and music pouring through it. "Come here."

Omi moved with him--noticed how they didn't so much as break apart or rescind their position as shift it, rolled the point of contact to the side so they could both walk, move back into the pulse of the club and the noise and the dark that wasn't totally dark. Never stopped touching.

Back in the main room he didn't seem to care where they went--ended up at the edge of the dance floor where the press of bodies wasn't so close and Schuldig stood behind him, arms around his waist and chuckled in his ear. And that was mostly a show because everyone could see them now, the kid with the cat-ears and the pretty-smile boy at the bar, and presumably Schuldig was pleased by that.

(But this reminds you of the first time, doesn't it?) Schuldig was warm against his back--and yeah, it did.

"This isn't working," Omi said; had to tilt his head back to say it so Schuldig would hear.

"Shh." Schuldig's mouth was pressed up right against his ear, the sound vibrating damp against it and his arms tightened slightly. "I've got something important to tell you."

Omi observed the dance floor, sweaty grinding and clouds of glitter and smoky light show and all. "Really."

"See that one?" Schuldig's hand lifted into his line of sight, gesturing to one side, someone dancing further in the crowd and he caught the bare edge of a glance in their direction from the person, tall guy with long hair, before he noticed them looking and directed his attention elsewhere. "He saw you walk in, wanted to pull your hair and fuck you over the bar." His hand moved back, fingers coiled in Omi's hair and brushed it back, smoothed it down to his neck before pointing out another--bleach blond at a table with some others in too much glitter. "That one," he murmured, voice closer and hotter and damp against his ear, "saw you at the bar, entertained ideas about licking you from chin to belly button," the hand returned to his neck, traced a slow line through the fishnet over his chest, slow rub all the way down to his waist and Omi tilted his head back, instinctively, and shivered, "and figures you whimper like a little girl."

Omi snorted.

Schuldig chuckled in his ear, softly, barest lap of tongue against the lobe and then pointed out one more--guy leaning against the bar, spiky hair, toned muscles under a white tee. "That one saw you last time, he's been waiting to find you again because you remind him of his ex-girlfriend." The arm around Omi's waist tightened, Schuldig's hips pressing a little closer to him, suggestively, their bodies nearly flush with each other now. "He wants to tie you to the bed and fuck you until you cry."

The tone of his voice killed the suggestion somewhat; it was terse and annoyed and somehow the press of Schuldig against his back became more protective than anything. Omi shifted in his arms until Schuldig hummed in contemplation. "And your boy with the pretty smile...?" He left the suggestion hanging there until Omi squirmed and tilted his head back, considering.

"Whatever, he wanted in my pants, that much was obvious." In this position he could mostly see the curve of Schuldig's cheek, the line of his eyebrow and the red bangs hanging out from under the beanie. "What?"

"He keeps rohypnol in his pocket." Schuldig declared this in the same matter-of-fact fashion he'd declared Mr. Cat-Ears's intention to suck him off. "He likes 'em best when they lie still... like dolls. _That's_ fucking kinky."

"That's fucking illegal." Omi made a noise that was like self-deprecation--who was he to judge, really, aside from the fact that he killed sickos like that for a living. Turned abruptly in Schuldig's arms to face him and look at him properly. Him, rather than all the people surrounding them and whatever any of them thought they wanted to do with either of them. "Why are you telling me this?"

Schuldig was still staring, over his shoulder and across the room and the way his eyebrows lowered made it pretty clear that the stare was directed at that boy, the one by the bar with the pretty smile. Omi pressed closer, slid his arms around Schuldig's neck and when his attention returned it was with a singular focus. Eyes hot and intent and a curve at the corner of his mouth.

"Because I don't fucking share."

Omi smiled, just a little--maybe because that was something like a sentiment; leaned up further and pressed closer and wrapped his arms tighter and kissed him, quick and warm and breathed against his lips afterwards, watched the smirk spread across his mouth. "Let's get out of here."

The side door opened to a dark alley, cool with the evening and dim with the angle of streetlights, and after that there wasn't much concern for noise, or smoke, or what other boys were thinking about.

* * *

What would be so wrong, really, with skipping the hotel and the heart-shaped bed for one night? The wall was closer and Omi was closer than that—warm, sweat-damp and glittery. His hair was a mess, his thoughts were scattered here there and everywhere, riding along some line between what those men wanted, was Schuldig lying (of course not, Omi wouldn't think that, not really, he knew the truth when he was told it) and then there was that amusing little count that he was keeping about unsatisfied. Fuck the bed, fuck the idiots, he wanted to stay right here, outside where the music didn't deafen him and he could still hear the moron inside mumbling over this sudden idea he had about—

A laugh in his chest that he wouldn't be able to explain and maybe testing out Omi's tolerance for things like that was bad. God (not that he believed in the fucker), couldn't they just go back to the booth, to Omi's hand and his thoughts and all that intention about shoving him down and grinding. (Your stupid fucking mouth always gets you in trouble…) Yeah, it got him out of trouble too. Look at that wall, wouldn't take too much, shove Omi against it, silky soft feeling against his skin, felt it brushing along the edge of Omi's consciousness—sensory perceptions now…if he got much deeper into his mind he'd be curled up in his subconscious, snoozing along like a computer virus—he stopped, fingers against the back of Omi's neck—(you're high) naw, only half—and felt the way his fingernails were hard, his skin was soft, tacky drag of skin to skin and all those scattered thoughts consolidating down into something—

(He won't let you; too dangerous even in the dark.)

Schuldig let his finger slide down, tracing a drop of sweat, out of his hair, down his neck, detoured, slipping around to the little hollow the side of his neck, Omi was turning around to look at him maybe, and he found the edge of that shirt, fishnet. He looked good, he looked like they thought he looked—fuckable, desirable, like he would ride them until they passed out and be there asking for more when they woke up, whimpering, whining and blushing like a fucking well-trained whore. Schuldig let his thumb drag down his throat, riding over that little bump and felt the shiver that started somewhere in Omi's mind and spread out—whole body, goosebumps on the backs of his arms. Just because it was cold, that was all. Just cold—didn't miss Schuldig nearly as much as he thought he did. (Couple of addicts playing fools, that's what you are.)

Love; it was there and all the words Omi didn't want to think that followed it along like obedient beaten dogs (lover, you mean, love mouse, pet names, commitment, forever, what the hell are you doing?). Some passing wonder about where they were going to end up this time, one of those pay by the hour hotels, no questions because the purpose was all very obvious, sneaking in and sneaking out (covering up your hair, fuck it, man you've got it bad). Omi's eyes staring at him and then his voice: "What?" Didn't sound like his thoughts, didn't sound like the mantra of sex and sweat that they weren't that far away from, a hundred bodies in there and minds all pulsing with the same mindless bump and grind, soaked through with the beat of the music that deafened your ears and your senses; drugs, alcohol and idiots.

Not for the first time, Schuldig half wished Omi was taller. Felt a smile across his face that wasn't cruel or mocking (oh, but it could be, easy) he moved. Saw himself like a blur in Omi's mind, felt the way their bangs brushed together, the texture of his thumb at Omi's chin, his fingers that were too warm, sweat damp, across his cheek, the weight of his presence and that taste on his breath that was—sweet? Seemed strange, not alcoholic... Omi moved with him at least, turned toward him enough, tilted his head. One hand against his shirt, his chest, the bare touch of a thumb that shot through his body like electricity. The other around his neck, pulling down. They should have stumbled, nobody would have noticed, two drunks stumbling around an alley against a wall in the cool of the evening, like every other set of fools. (Addict.) Lips at first, that was all, teasing brushes of their mouths, weeks of waiting, days of wondering if this time would be the time they got it right, Omi replaying how it had gone, unsatisfied he'd said—no sex and more than that, he remembered other things, small touches. Schuldig touched his chest, hand over his heart, pushing against the shirt, the pattern of little diamonds and felt the weight of it echo in Omi's mind, how he wanted it and shouldn't, the way he sighed against his mouth—

Roughness of the grip around his neck, pulling him down and Schuldig did push him then, back, stumbling, toward the wall. Impact, scrape across shoulder blades, he felt it across his own skin like a blush, felt Omi's want and need and his own (and that love, don't forget that, fucking addict), put his own hand against the wall, leaning down again (consider a portable step stool, think of all pain in the neck you'll save yourself.) Licked his lips, watched Omi staring at his mouth and then looking up, eyes half closed, smile in his mind that didn't make it to his lips, they were so temptingly parted, and there and then Schuldig kissed him. It wasn't sudden—long overdue—the hand around the back of his neck, Omi raising up on his toes, Schuldig's hand on his side, feeling the muscle pulled taut there and—(could be naked with the cat boy, you know)—

Laughing somewhere, not too far away, didn't take half an effort to shove the drunk and chattery minds in the opposite way, didn't need company. Both hands down on Omi now, up and down on his chest, restless, just dragging his palms and creating friction, just to feel and feel it on his own skin. Fingers toying with the little bits of hair at the nape of his neck that had gotten loose and Omi complaining or protesting about how he wanted all of his hair and it wasn't there. Couldn't have it, had to hide. (Ridiculous.) They were too far apart, Omi was too damn short and he bent his knees, one hand against the wall again—breaking apart for a breath, eyes closed and just— Omi turned his head, back toward the club, toward the people that were sure to come this way eventually, the tips of his fingers under the edge of the stupid beanie and frustrated. Just frustrated—opening his mouth to say they should move on, should go somewhere else, should get inside where the walls would protect them and they could strip down and do all this for—Schuldig kissed him again. His hand curved across the top of his head, caught in his hair, tipping his head back again and kissed him.

(Can you get track marks from this kind of stupid?)

Fists in his shirt, balling up the fabric, the bitten back noise in Omi's throat he wasn't about to make here but damn it all, if this didn't stop he would. They needed somewhere else, somewhere warm, somewhere behind closed doors and Schuldig tightened his hand in Omi's hair, loosened, let it slip down, back against his cheek, didn't want to let go, feeling the way their mouths moved together and then the throb in his gut and his hips and Omi wasn't that far from irrational himself—(but the idiot with the pretty smile inside the club, he was pushing open the bathroom door, getting fuzzy, starting to wonder...)

"Damn," Schuldig breathed out, hand back against the wall like holding himself up. Looking at Omi as he settled back on his feet, breathing heavy and contemplating how bad it would be really just to not stop, his hands itching to keep touching until Schuldig could feel it in his own (or maybe it was always there, can't blame everything on the little addiction).

But it was cold. "We're," Omi started when his breath had maintained any level of respectability but his hands hadn't stopped itching. Made him stand up straighter just to put space between them, not nearly close enough to touch, rub and grind now. It put weight behind his words that they didn't need, Schuldig appreciated the effort anyway. "Not doing this here. I want a bed."

There were a hundred comebacks and Omi was half expecting them. Mocking him about standards, prices and being a chick with all his stupid little needs for comfort and--Schuldig nodded instead. Let his hand fall away from the wall and wiped at his mouth, smeared the taste of grime and dirt across his lips. (Yes well, most addicts were idiots.) "Let's go," he said.

The bed they ended up with was large, round and positioned underneath a mural that was supposed to make you feel like you were under the ocean--the whole room was like that. Had all manner of potential to be really attractive but what did that matter really, they didn't come to these dumb hotels for the atmosphere (and after the last time he was under the water, his love for it wasn't exactly overflowing). There was some little instruction sheet on the control panel that must have explained all the nice features the room had to offer for the intrepid young couple that needed a nice comfortable place to have sex--a mini bar with all manner of alcohol and a sheet of paper advertising all manner of rentals. Costumes, equipment and the same things the last place had, and the one before that.

Strange minds, fluid, flowing, chaotic and crushing in like waves. Omi's hand was on his elbow, the other yanking the hat off his head, tossed it somewhere behind him and who cared what happened to it now? Omi wanted to touch his hair, wanted to feel it between his fingers and make sure it was how he remembered it; Schuldig grinned at him. Height had its advantages, really. He reached down to catch the edge of the shirt--should burn it, make sure Omi never wore it anywhere again. Tugged it up and it came easily, Omi's arms already up like they were, over his head and tossed it the same way the hat had gone. Traced his fingers back down, started at the elbows, skating light across skin, tipped his head back to make his hair fall back, felt the tangles, felt how it didn't fall quite right sweaty and stuck under the hat like it had been, Omi's hands were on his shoulders now, trying to pull him down. Shivered, maybe, when Schuldig's hands drifted down, too close to his shoulders, and shifted, backs of his fingers just touching--smiled when Omi frowned at him.

(Don't think he finds it nearly as amusing as you.)

No, he probably didn't. Schuldig grabbed his hands, fingernails were starting to dig into his skin and that was no good. Grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands off, palms to palms and pushed him back. "Want something?" (Sure, arm wrestle him. He'll kick your ass.)

"Yes," but you already knew that. A smile, just a little one, and then Omi took mental stock of the room. Habit, really, you didn't survive as an assassin without taking stock of the room--he knew the whole layout better than Schuldig did with even less of a glance. Of course he did, and the bed was in that precise direction and to throw Schuldig off balance he had to twist his hand precisely _this_ way. It worked every time you weren't fighting a telepath, surely. (Oh don't fool yourself, it'll work this time too.) Probably would, but he wanted to play it out anyway, countered the move, almost threw Omi off balance, quick and silent steps of socked feet on the carpet (think of what's in that rug) and another attempt, almost got him that time, they were back to facing the right way, his back to the bed and Omi pushing against him. Brute strength for such a short guy, but his fingers and his arms were strong enough. Schuldig stumbled, Omi smirked and about the time his knees hit the back of the bed (just like the walking addiction wanted). Schuldig tightened his fingers around Omi's and yanked his arms up. They knocked together, Omi objected somewhere between his mind and his mouth (hard to tell when he's thinking and talking anymore isn't it? That's no good) and he shook one hand free, grabbed him by the face and kissed him. Laughed; and hard fists were shoving his chest so he fell backward. That was fine, he pulled his knees up, heels on the edge of the round bed and shoved himself backward--shoulders dragging the silky rustling sheets with him.

Omi grabbed his knee to keep him still, grinning at him and crawled up on the bed after him (those stupid son of a bitches at the club, they never thought of this). Schuldig laughed louder, Omi sliding up between his own thighs, moving his legs so they were straddling Schuldig's stomach and his hand hard against his chest, tearing the last button on the shirt but fuck the buttons. (Yes, you can always mindfuck someone into buying you a new one.) He just crossed his arms behind his head and waited.

_S_"O," Omi purred or mused, hard to tell, his thoughts were all on the surface now, in Schuldig's ears and skin. Silky black boxers hugging against his ass, warm as they were now, aggravating feeling and not. _When you_ "Saw me at the club" _in that shirt,_ the freshman shirt, the one that everyone liked and Omi had known that without having to be told, strange that and thoughts of cheating and what Schuldig was, fear of commitment and that was ridiculous. "Is," punctuated because the word wasn't floating in Omi's thoughts, spoken in his voice, mouth that close to Schuldig's. Not kissing but they should have been. Could have had this conversation without their mouths that was for damn sure. _This what you thought about?_

He tilted his head. "My thoughts had a more significant lack of clothes," he said back. (He didn't finish asking.) Well, not out loud. "Less fish too."

The laugh, that close to his lips, was a tickle of breath that was just as much a tease as it wasn't. Shift of the touch against his chest, changing its mind about holding him down, a passing thought about running themes, fish and fishnet and how Schuldig never did like his clothes. He liked some of them, under the right circumstances. A time and a place for everything, that was what he'd been taught and now was neither. Omi wanted to touch his hair still, but he was holding back, silly and stupid thing to do, brushing their mouths together just to get him interested. (Wasted time.) No, the hands brushing his shirt open wider, tracing down his ribs, the feathery lightness of the touch as it got lower, closer to where it was ticklish and Schuldig leaned up to kiss him. Caught his mouth and all those intentions toward teasing wavered, quivered like delicate little threads.

Easy to break, really.

One night for every twelve; Schuldig sat up. Omi settled back in his lap, kissing slow and (raw, that was how close they were, that was what _she_ called it) needy. Or not, need was pricklier, burrs under your skin, this was deeper than that. He found Omi's wrists, pulled his hands up, to his shoulders and let them find the rest of the way by themselves. To his hair, raked through it. A mess, didn't matter, Omi would work through that, untangle it and tangle it again. Smiling into the kiss with a noise rattling against his mouth. Flex and shift of his back, all that muscle in his shoulders, down, slim waist and Schuldig pushed him over. Kiss at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, back to his ear, traced the edge of it, lower, his throat, nipping there to leave pink marks that would fade. Couldn't show, that was the rule, and lower.

Taking time, defining the boundary of Omi and him, mapping out the places where they were different--sucking at the skin just under the dip in Omi's collar bone, fingers down on his ribs, lower, at his waist, found a scar and traced it with his tongue--little noise, hips raising up to push against his belly and that was unintentional. Smiled against the warm skin under his mouth, moving back up. Left nipple, not the right, no explanation for that. Omi didn't wonder at it too hard, didn't care, just combed through his hair, pressed against the back of his head when he got it right and--Schuldig found the button of his pants. Clingy, black, attractive.

In the way.

Thumbed them open with years of practice, elbow to the bed, licking his way down, kisses like loud little smacks, chuckling and feeling Omi shifting, one of his hands moving down to his shoulder (starting to wonder really, where he was headed) and Schuldig curled his fingers around the waist band of the pants, the stupid elastic of the black silky boxers. Tugged them down, bit by bit as he sucked at soft belly skin. Muscle flexing up as Omi arched up to let him get the pants down.

"I thought about this," he mumbled into that thin line of blond hair that ran down...kissed his way down. Fingers tightening his hair as his hand slipped back up the inside of Omi's thigh, walking across the damp skin and curling around him, stroke of his palm and one last kiss, licked his lips before--

Tremble, he loved the trembling, the tug at his hair wasn't as lovely but the moan was good, the first one that rattled around loosely in Omi's chest before it worked its way up, quivering in his throat and finally breaking free of his mouth in a breathless staggered gasp. _Oh fuck_ all in one messy syllable in his head, echoing out from Omi's and he would have smiled if not for his full mouth, looked up through the haze of his bangs and didn't see much. Chin, throat muscles working, thumb against his forehead and fingers curling around to guide the bob of his head. _Yes_, discernible through the chaos of Omi's thoughts, that was always easy like he was agreeing to good things, answering unspoken questions about did he want it to continue--people did that. It almost always annoyed him. _Fu_-- said that one once. _More_. More was good. Gasp somewhere above him, shaking hand pushing his hair out of the way that thumb on his forehead rubbing in the sweat and he moved his own hand, down, pushing Omi's thigh open farther, following the crease there between leg and body. Distracting--who could handle more distractions now? Omi pushing up against his mouth and biting his lip, trying not to, grabbing at the sheets and wondering where the damn pillows were--no, didn't matter, thinking about fuck again and nothing, white space when the mind broke down like an animal.

(He wants to fuck your face.) So did a lot of people.

He shifted again, pushing Omi down by the hip and the complaint, a little moan that made the air feel heavy, hot, caressed across his skin like silky boxers. Restless, writhing, squirming and he moved his hand again, Omi pushed up again, back arching and scratching for purchase with his fingernails and his mind, finding nothing but that was fine, just fine it was bright and hot and--

Lacking a certain gourmet appeal but there was nothing you could do about that. (Didn't she tell you once dick was the worst taste in the world?) He crawled back up, laid down next to Omi and watched him breathe, eyes closed and limp. "God," in a mumble. (Like you need help with that complex.)

Schuldig wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and brushed his hair back over his shoulders so it fell behind him. Rested his head on his palm and waited. Smiled over the ideas floating around in Omi's head about what came next, because he could return the favor or something or something else, but what did Schuldig want, really. There really were a lot of fish in this room, and a black light, that might be worth looking at later when--wait, needed to get his thoughts into some manner of order and then Omi opened his eyes and let his fingers fall away form his face, rolled his head over to look at him.

(Go ahead and let him suck you off, he wants to.) Yes, well, that would be nice. And who was he to really deny Omi what it was he wanted anyway? All the same, when Omi rolled onto his side toward him, Schuldig kissed him. Distracted him away from those silly thoughts about blow jobs and ran his hand in one long stroke down the sweat-slicked length of his ribs. One night for every twelve; they could get picky about what they got to do on those nights if they couldn't get choosy about where. So Omi wriggled the rest of the way out of his pants, kicked them off the edge of the bed and put a hand against his chest to push him onto his back.

Schuldig reached down into his pocket before his pants got displaced for him, two fingers closing around the little foil packets of lube that were all very single use only and pulled them up as Omi got his button and zipper undone, pushed down and tugged at the knees of the pants until they slipped off his legs. Tossed them after his own and came back, grinning. Schuldig reached down to grab his socks and pull them off (look at him admiring your flexibility like that; one day he just might get ideas). So long as it wasn't tonight. Hand on the inside of his thigh, pushing his leg down when his sock was still hanging on his toes and he just wiggled it off as Omi crawled over his thigh to lay against his side, half on top of him.

A kiss, as sweet as a whispered word, a quiet kind of eagerness in the touch. A thumb that brushed across his throat and ran into the leather wrapped around there, pushing it up and down again, rolling it until he pushed the hand down—the way Omi's mind shifted along between the touch, the feeling of skin. Smooth skin, muscle (and wasn't his slight note of shock every time he finds muscle on you ever so slightly insulting), the raised little bump of a nipple and Omi's mouth curved into a smile as his fingertips slid lower, just a few more centimeters and he'd hit the ticklish places… Schuldig kissed him harder, brought his arm up, Omi's head cradled there in the crook of his elbow and the hand made a sloppy U-turn back upward.

(That's better.)

Maybe, the eagerness was gone and thought was settling in, dissatisfaction and that most definitely wouldn't lead to him getting laid—not that it mattered, not right away, his body followed Omi's relaxing into the touch and the close, the calm that came in those lengths of time between. Squeeze of a hand around his shoulder, Omi's ear smashed against his arm—starting to get uncomfortable, if only because it was sweaty. Sweaty ears were unwelcome—fingers going down over the bone there, to his upper arm and finding the ridge of the scar. Pelagatti's scar. (Not everyone keeps track of where they get every little scar…) Not everyone had the sort of scars he did.

"You know," Omi said as his tongue swiped across his own lips, bright pink and almost red. Shiny, anyway. He pushed himself up to his elbow to look at what he'd found. "You really suck at video games." Because the scar had nothing to do with megalomaniacs that met grisly ends and everything to do with spare time spent playing on the Super Box, beating Schuldig at something, sex and laying against his chest, exchanging words that had meaning and touches that were meant to be nothing but—touches.

(That's disgusting.)

"Only because I didn't cheat," Schuldig said back. He put the arm that had been under Omi's head under his and rolled onto his back. Omi was going to have to crawl on top of him to keep looking at the scar.

It took a half second longer, Omi thinking over that statement and then moving, knee sliding across his belly and down into the bed on the other side, one hand on his chest and the other nowhere in particular. He was holding his own weight, not quite where he would be most appreciated but it was close and his mind was all distracted away from sex anyway. "Why didn't you?"

"Because," he said and stretched under him, arching a little to make Omi scoot back even a few centimeters, didn't really work other than one blond eyebrow cocking upward. The question was more important than anything else, of course. Hydra-puzzles and all that. "If I lost enough, I'd get laid." Humor, she had been known to say, was all in the delivery.

Omi laughed (aren't you cute), grinned and leaned forward on his elbows, brushing their bodies together in all the welcome places, even with his knees there against Schuldig's ribs and lips just barely touching his, still chuckling, eyes shimmering and half open—this was funny. Sure it was, from the side of the equation that already got off, he reached down, both hands wrapping around Omi's ass and squeezing, lifted his head up enough to make this tease a real kiss.

Acquiesce by way of playful pity (the only good kind surely) and Omi pressed down against him a little harder, stopped teasing because their mouths slid together right. (Addicts playing fools.) Playful, he was fine with playful, pressed his hands into flesh—skin and muscle, and somewhere under that bone. He knew it too well, the way it moved and felt and—when Omi was going to decide to make his point and stop but he had a good thirty seconds before that happened. Grabbed him harder and sat up, felt the arm go around his shoulders, the way Omi sitting up almost made him taller, pulled him down and forward, pushing up against him, his own back curved, kissing harder, hand up against the back of his neck.

Thirteen seconds. Why the hell did they have to talk? He kissed Omi's neck, felt his voice rumbling there, the little hum of pleasure, the curious fingers in his hair and on his back, thumb over the bump of his spine and his head tipped back. "You'd take a blow to your pride," and a little gasp in there somewhere.

Schuldig fumbled with the blanket, found that slick little packet of one-serving lube.

"Just to," and his head came forward again, hand sliding up to just behind Schuldig's ear, making their mouths meet up again, a kiss that wasn't, open mouths, breath, want and need and who the hell really had to talk now? Omi didn't know either, eyes sliding closed as his skin beaded up with sweat again. His hips were moving against him, his head imagining things that were better—what they had been, would be, wondering why Schuldig hadn't shoved him on his back yet and moaned the last words into his mouth caught between the original question and the next demand. "Fuck me?"

_Yes_ to the question, to the command, to the lingering thought about shoving him backward. Yes to just about anything that ended with Omi's little breath when his shoulders hit the bed, the sly smile curving up the side of his mouth and half a thought about eagerness. Didn't matter, Schuldig ripped the stupid little packet as he got his knees back under him and squeezed it all into his fist, threw it, dropped his hand down to the bed and leaning over.

Kissed Omi because he missed that between the one in twelve. Felt the legs coming up, wrapping around his body, complaining about his arm being down, no matter what his hand was attending to (going cross eyed over here, how about you), who was eager now? Didn't matter, like the fish swimming over their head and the squeak of the badly used bed frame. Gasp when he pressed against Omi, kissed his throat, sucked on the skin there, the taste of sweat and sweet anticipation in his mind that was the finest old whiskey—it burned down his spine as he stayed there, teasing back one fraction of a second for every little thought Omi had about doing the same.

For one in twelve, for kisses that he'd missed, for Omi's little catches of breath, scratches on his shoulders, knees digging into his ribs and the shivering high of feeling that was right _there_, so close to begging, he pressed forward and damn near lost it right there. Omi's back arching, his mind scattering everywhere all at once like broken pieces of fine china and the heat of his body—

Seeking, blind, and finding shoulders, arms slipped up under Omi's body, felt the way he adjusted, rocked back and breathed in the smell of his skin, just to remember it later. Pushing forward again, inside (addict) and leaning up. (Good thing he's so damn short.) Kissing him, reaching out his fingers to feel the tips of his hair, soaked in sweat like they were and moving. Slow. (One in twelve, right, draw it out and make it last, remember it later when you're by yourself with nothing but cold sheets?) Someone was shivering and he didn't think it was him.

Tremble, might have been, lips brushing together in all the wrong ways, what did that matter? Omi's cheek was smooth, always was, touching his, under his lips, against his nose, and his eyes closed, one hand going over his head to find the edge of the bed because it felt close by. Schuldig kissed him again, harder than the last time—stop thinking. Stop thinking about that, the edge of the bed and the end and the exits of the room.

Dragged both his hands down, slow, even, firm strokes of his thumb to mark the way, to draw out gasps and little growls, little wants and needs, going down Omi's chest, his ribs and his belly, down, and down to his hips tugging him backward and pushing forward. Didn't like that—hand around his thigh, the other against the bed, leaning down to kiss him, all his stupid hair—swinging, swaying, in his mouth, in his eyes, in Omi's eyes.

Ridiculous.

Hands pushing it back, holding it back, shivering little moan, he answered. Too hot and too hard to breath (but you're not ready to let go yet). Panting, digging his hand down into the stupid turquoise bedspread that was just plain obscene to look at; Omi arched up under him again, head back and then to the side, flushed pink, shiny with sweat and wrapping both arms around his shoulders, bringing him back down… Too much skin, too damn much skin touching everywhere, overlapping, someone was trembling and he couldn't tell who.

(Those men in the club—) Had no fucking idea. Schuldig licked a streak of sweat off Omi's flushed neck, right there where it met shoulder, heard his whimper, saw his white teeth clenched around pink lips and moaned—(gonna lose it)—pressed his mouth against Omi's shoulder. (Gonna show.) Sucked on it, wanted to bite it so bad he could feel it tightening his fists, pushing his hips forward hard, sinking in deeper and the clawing pleasure quivering in Omi's head, in his body, and let go.

Grabbed Omi's face with his hand, (be careful now), watched him open his eyes, half open, looking at him, right there at the edge ready to give in and let it happen (be careful now) and Schuldig kissed him. Not rough, possessive, the hand on his face, wrapped around his jaw, demanding attention, the kiss that echoed what he'd said and what he hadn't:

Didn't share. Never did. Nobody ever touched what was his and Omi was (fucking hot) _his_.

Sinew, bone, muscle, skin, teeth, tongue, lips and mind—right there, he breathed out, ragged and heavy with a half spoken moan, could have been Omi's name or not, didn't know, shivered and held on. Lost the kiss but not the way his hand rested there against Omi's jaw, feeling the same tremble, the tilt of his face and the mind behind it blanking out with bliss.

* * *

They pulled the bed apart--it was a matter of comfort, really, no telling when that comforter had last been washed and they'd just added further insult to the poor piece of fabric--so it was just the two of them between sheets, dark blue to go with the room's theme. The pillows and mattress, now that Omi was in a position to appreciate them, were actually wonderfully soft and inviting, perfect for relaxing in the afterglow, and someone running this place had put some real thought into that. It was kind of nice.

Schuldig was lying on his side, close enough that his breath tickled cool against the curve between Omi's neck and shoulder, one arm draped across his waist--it was possessive, that arm, the curl of fingers around his hip, like that kiss there at the end.

Omi shifted a little, still on his back, turned just slightly towards Schuldig and hummed softly, thoughtful noise in his throat. Felt the way the cooling sweat stuck their skin together everywhere they were touching. Tangled legs, Omi's shoulder against his chest, and that arm. His eyes were closed, mouth parted softly almost like sleeping and without an expression his features softened, and in that state looked more his age than any other time. Still young, really.

He rolled, gradually, shift of hips and felt Schuldig's arm snake under and around his shoulders, the one at his waist wrapping around to his back. Omi let his own hands get caught between them, palms flat against skin and leaned in, small kisses at the corners of Schuldig's mouth. Just until his eyes slitted open like he knew Omi was going to say something and wasn't going to bother asking.

"This isn't working," Omi murmured.

"Give it a minute." Schuldig replied in a flat tone, the one he used when he thought Omi was being a moron but it wasn't always all that serious. "It'll work again."

"You're so funny," Omi replied, mimicking the flatness and then let it go soft, moved into another kiss, slower--it hadn't always been like this, cuddling afterwards and kissing and _talking_, even. They talked enough back then but not like this. "You know what I mean."

He wasn't going to say it out loud. Any of that.

Small movements--the arm under his neck, Schuldig's hand settled on the top of his head, stroked down his hair to his chin, down his neck and back to his shoulder. Felt the tug there and the kiss back, deep and lingering. "I'll call you next time."

Omi shook his head instantly and drew back. "You can't call me, they monitor my phone."

Eyeroll followed by a superior huff--and that meant he really _did_ think Omi was being a moron and he lifted up, off the pillow and onto his elbow, fingers clawing back his hair before settling against his hand. "I didn't mean on the phone. One of the many practical applications of telepathy is communication."

And there were occasions where Schuldig was right.

To be fair, Omi was accustomed to the fact that Schuldig could hear what he was thinking--utilized it on occasion, but he didn't remember anytime previous where Schuldig had displayed the ability to speak directly into his mind. Although if he thought about it there were times during sex when he was pretty sure he heard something like "move your leg" or "stop that" or just a general sound of appreciation or approval while Schuldig's mouth was clearly otherwise occupied. He blamed it on the activity in question muddling his senses.

He wondered, though, how far that connection went. Omi licked his lips, watched Schuldig hovering over him and following all his little thoughts, watched that grin spread across his face in time with the movement. "Okay."

Schuldig's hand on his shoulder, still grinning and pushing him back onto his back, sliding over and resettling above him, body warm and close and not quite pressing him down. Skin still tacky with sweat. "This," he said, _is what it feels like_.

And really, it shouldn't have felt much like anything, just a voice, not as much of a German accent as Schuldig usually had but still his and the only real difference was that Schuldig's mouth didn't move along with it. The sound was present like an auditory hallucination, only Omi knew it was real and not imagined and that if anyone else had been present they wouldn't have heard it. That idea made him shiver a little, the suggestion of privacy and intimacy and the reason that the voice felt like anything at all was that his mind immediately made associations with it. Like a kind of defense, against something his brain wasn't equipped to handle and tried instead to turn it into a memory, attaching all these thoughts and feelings and images to it and it _did_ feel. Felt like an old, aching hurt and then like sweat and skin and sex and hair under his fingers and (love) and spending a day wearing nothing but his shirt.

It was kind of nice, actually.

He mentally calculated the hour before reaching up and pulling Schuldig down into a kiss, caught a glance at the digital clock on the bedside table before bending his knees up around Schuldig's hips and pressing up, soft murmur against his lips--still time for another. Not enough time for the whole night but he could stay, for now--

"That's not usually how people react." Schuldig's voice was amused, light against his lips and there was a laugh somewhere in there that probably would never come out.

"Other people don't have the benefit of knowing you the way I do."

Slow movement--hands, mostly, slow dragging touches and just a small shift and press, just enough to entice and Schuldig's mouth moved down his neck. Most of the sound he made was breath, head tilting back and fingers pressing patterns in Schuldig's skin and his thoughts wandered in random directions, in time with the lazy movements, and when they stumbled across something he laughed softly, felt Schuldig's hair against his mouth.

"_That's_ how you knew." Random thing to say with no connotation but Omi was thinking of their conversation before, about video games and Schuldig not cheating because he knew--it was a silly observation, there was no reason to say it, but he was just drifting along with the feeling and the idea of sex and the words just drifted out in tandem.

"No, Crawford told me." Schuldig said this with a flat disinterest between planting kisses along his collarbone, one hand petting up and down over his hip, thumb tracing shivering circles on the sensitive skin closer to his navel. "You know, he punched me the first time," he continued, contemplation in the tone like he was mentally filing away the information for future use, pressing his mouth into the hollow of Omi's throat for a moment before continuing. "Of course, we hadn't had sex yet, then..."

Omi had stopped moving at all seconds after the first phrase was out of Schuldig's mouth and the damn German knew it, kept going like he didn't notice but Omi knew he did and knew he was enjoying the moment, but it was only after that last that Omi finally pushed him away and sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed and reaching for his pants.

Because first of all, the precog was supposed to have visions about important things. Things like what his enemies' plans were and whether or not the world was going to end. He had absolutely no fucking business having visions about Schuldig and him and whether or not they were going to spend the evening fucking.

And second of all, Schuldig had no business bringing up the fact that he'd slept with the goddamn precog--albeit years ago or who knew--and Schuldig was chuckling, sitting there in the middle of the bed. His boxers and pants were still tangled up together, and he pulled them on at the same time.

Schuldig was beating him down for a reason. He'd gotten too wrapped up with himself and the idea of them and now he was paying for it. Didn't mean he had to like it; sure as hell didn't mean he had to stay naked for it.

"Oh, Crawford hates seeing you in his head every bit as much as it pisses you off to know that he does." Schuldig pushed himself further upright, crossing his legs under the sheets and pushing hair back from his face; his grin was feral, predatory in its amusement and he knew that Omi didn't give a fuck how Crawford felt. Knew that Omi was outraged more than anything by the fact that Schuldig just _kept talking about him_ and it was funny, to him. He was leaning back on his hands now, something arrogant and inviting in the way he slouched.

"Three months, three weeks and five days."

Omi scowled and wondered if he really wanted to know, finishing up the button of his pants without looking at it. Mentally counting backwards. "Since what?"

Schuldig just waited, patient and arrogant and totally aware of just how gorgeous and infuriating he was sitting there like that.

Three months, three weeks and five days in the past he was at the Koneko; just before the temple collapsed in the sea, but what that had to do with--_oh_.

He didn't need the smirk curling the corners of Schuldig's mouth to know he was right; it settled in the pit of his stomach and ached there. It _hurt_. It closed around his throat until he had to swallow first to speak and he thought about strangling. No--thought about strangling the bastard American. Thought about strangling the arrogant prick on the bed for a minute before changing his mind and resettling on Crawford. Oversized bastard, would take both hands to wrap around his neck but Omi knew how to do it, where to press to stop the bloodflow and crush the windpipe. Could even use that trick, just a jerk in the right place and the neck would snap. It was a matter of know-how.

Omi swallowed--to get that lump out of the way and to remind himself that he didn't kill people in cold blood. The thoughts made the pain in his gut feel slightly better, though.

He just said, "You fucked him," because the fact was pretty obvious at this point. An image kept trying to form in his mind and Omi kept stamping it out before he got a good look.

Schuldig stopped grinning. He leaned forward again, pulling his legs back and rearranging them under the sheets, elbows on his knees and he regarded Omi seriously. Hair loose around his face. "Yes, but nothing at all like that."

He could have said something like, 'You could have just _not told me_,' seems how Schuldig was displaying something like care for the fact that he'd hurt Omi's feelings, but that would be ridiculous. That would be wishing for ignorance and Omi wouldn't have meant it and Schuldig wouldn't have been impressed. He supposed he could appreciate the honesty despite the lousy way Schuldig chose to deliver it but the pain in his chest denied that idea instantly. Maybe later, when it didn't hurt so much.

He could have thrown a fit, he supposed, and demanded to know what the hell it _was_ like, then, but that was too much like being an angry lover (and he'd been trying so hard not to think of that word) so after all that internal debate all he said was, "Oh," arms lowering to his side, attention jerking away to the myriad of neon fish on the walls. Thought about taking a shower because that thought was pretty safe in comparison to all the others.

Schuldig's voice drew him back, though, even if it was only a skeptical gaze while he talked. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you—this is actually hilarious." He waved his hands in front of him in a kind of placation when Omi scowled instantly at the notion that _any_ of this was hilarious, like a silent 'no, really, it is' in a plea to continue. "See _he_ wants to kill _you_, and not in any of those neat and tidy little ways you were thinking about killing him, either."

Omi wet his lips, shrugged his shoulders and thought about the temple and the pillar and Nagi Naoe slowly crushing him against it. Thought about Crawford and his glasses and his sinister smile and what methods he preferred over strangling.

"I wouldn't let him," Schuldig added, clearly following the train of thought.

Omi wasn't really impressed by any of this. "Neither would I."

"You want to kill him," Schuldig continued before Omi decided he didn't want to listen anymore. "He thinks that I love you, and you're upset because he tried to fuck me out of missing you."

Omi's mind caught hold of that sentence and played it over a few times. It stuttered around the _thinks that I love you_ a few times before replaying in full, and he swallowed again. Wondered what about this was supposed to be so funny, anyway. "Did it work?"

"Jealousy tickles when you're the prize being fought over." Schuldig said it knowing that it didn't matter, knowing that Omi didn't care and his voice dismissed it even as he said the words. He slid to the edge of the bed, both feet on the floor and fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, sheet still tangled at his waist. "Nagi tried to kill you," he said, and the tone was probably so different in contrast to the dismissive one he'd just used. Expression serious again and it was almost frightening, the level of sincerity suddenly present. "I fucked his head up so bad he still speaks backwards. I'm thinking about fixing it. Soon, maybe."

He licked his lips again, considering this but Schuldig was still playing a game--the one where he avoided answering a question directly. He should have known better--it was the first one Omi ever figured out. "Did it work?"

The way Schuldig's eyebrows drew together was kind of cute--because he _did_ know better but that wasn't stopping anything. "You were supposed to infer the answer from what I just told you."

Omi shook his head--because he could infer all he wanted but as long as Schuldig didn't say it he could pretend it didn't exist, could turn it into an assumption if he wanted to. Omi watched him and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms still limp at his sides. Fingers flexing. Said, "I don't want to infer anything," at the same time that Schuldig said, "I didn't want Crawford to be right," and he wasn't sure if Schuldig said it out loud or in his head because it all jumbled up together and Omi had to stop. Back up, replay and untangle the two phrases from each other.

And when he did, and he had the statement laid out neatly and considered it until the meaning caught, the pain in his stomach and the lump in his throat shivered and tightened.

He asked, "Did it work?"

_No_. Schuldig's head shook, side to side, punctuating the voice in his mind.

And the voice was nice and it shivered and reinstated the intimacy he'd felt earlier, just for a moment, but Omi's hands curled up into fists, clenching and relaxing like a breath. He'd tried so hard to not think about it. Tried, but it was all tumbling around in the front of his mind now and he shook his head to try and get it under control. Rubbed his forehead so he couldn't see Schuldig sitting there all serious and sincere and un-Schuldig-like. Choked out, "M--Me too," in a kind of stuttered jumble and bent down to grab his shirt--he would take a shower. Not to run away or dwell in hurt and anger but because that was safe. Five minutes under the water and his thoughts would be all neatly back in order.

Schuldig's hand caught his when he straightened and he almost jerked away from how raw it felt--dropped the shirt, at least, froze where he stood and it was almost painful--like his skin had been split open and peeled away and every touch and movement hurt. Schuldig stood up, moved around to face him and his hands moved to his shoulders and the word _stay_ murmured in his mind. Like the touch on his wrist months and months ago with the same request. Schuldig's hand slid into his hair, brushed it back until Omi's eyes slipped closed and he leaned into it, leaned forward until his forehead was against Schuldig's collarbone. Felt his own shoulders shaking under Schuldig's hands.

What was so different about having admitted it? (But you said it yourself, as long as no one says anything you can always pretend it didn't exist.)

It was later--after he stopped shaking and the sheets were pulled back and he was arching off the bed, feel of Schuldig inside him in spikes of pleasure and--_fuck_. It was then that he pressed his lips against Schuldig's ear and mouthed the words there just to see how they felt. Just once. And Schuldig stuttered something in German and something about 'god' and 'fuck' and kissed him until he thought he would drown in it.

Then--it was probably okay.

* * *

Omi snuck back into the RV at about four in the morning and slept until noon, at which point Ken kicked him out of bed because there were mission specs to work on and flowers to sell and lunch to eat. He was in the middle of two of these three things--Aya had been handling the flowers, the girls in this part of town were nuts for the dour angry guy type--when Youji wandered in, daily newspaper folded in one hand and unlit cigarette in the other.

"You were clubbing last night, right?" Youji was using his 'big brother' voice, one that cared not for who had seniority and who didn't; he was older, more responsible, and he was on the verge of laying out boundaries for the good of those less so. "In Shinjuku?"

He nodded a little, pushed the last of the onigiri into his mouth and accepted the paper when Youji handed it to him. It was folded open to an article, headline declaring 'FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN NIGHTCLUB DEATH'. Beneath it the article outlined how a young man had been found dead, drowned in a toilet, and investigators later discovered a large amount of the drug rohypnol in his system.

"Better watch yourself," Youji cautioned, lifting the cigarette to his lips and fishing in his pocket for a lighter. "Not all the dark beasts are in Manx's file folders."

Omi stared at the article and the blurb about the victim, graphic design major from Hosei University, and could probably have told Youji that there was only one dark beast in the club that night. Omi had been right in his arms the whole time.


End file.
